


Handle with Care

by esama



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aphenphosmphobia, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bottom Sam Porter Bridges, Clothed Sex, Cold Weather, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't copy to another site, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Heartman Is a Good Bro, Hypothermia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overstimulation, Shower Sex, Submissive Sam Porter Bridges, Touch-Starved, Under-negotiated Kink, do not reblog, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22388350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Sam and the aftermath of the Shower Scene
Relationships: Sam Porter Bridges/Deadman
Comments: 111
Kudos: 553





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread by Nimadge, many thanks
> 
> This gets smutty right away, so, fair warning for that.
> 
> Takes place from Chapter 6 onward.  
>    
> **Additional warnings for**
> 
> Canonical Invasions of Privacy, as in Bridges constant surveillance.
> 
> Kind of clothing kink but not really. Wrapping up kink, maybe? It probably has a name, but I couldn't find it.
> 
> The sex tries to be realistic.
> 
> And re:Sam's Aphenphosmphobia. I researched some, but there's not a lot out there about it that really explained what it's like for people who have it. So I elaborated. Also I know in the game it's a side effect of the whole repatriation thing, somehow, but I went with it being straight up phobia here, with psychosomatic side effects, sensations and whatnot.

Sam hesitates in front of the shower, not sure why. There's nothing precisely wrong with it, it's exactly the same as all the other showers he's used before. Every Bridges facility is about the same, really, down to the same details and décor – even the bedclothes are exactly the same. So far there hasn't been a single room that wasn't in tip top shape, everything working _perfectly_ – and so far there hasn't been much anything setting the rooms apart, either. Capital Knot, Port Knot, Lake Knot, South Knot and all the distro center in between – they're all identical.

This one here, though, this one is different. Mountain Knot had became… different.

Sam looks down and then up, drawing a breath and releasing it slowly. He knows he's being watched – or if not watched, then at least monitored. He's… _pretty_ sure that only select people have access to do the data coming from his various private rooms – Heartman first of all, Die-Hardman, Mama or... Lockne, now… so it's not like _everyone_ he's ever met is watching him. And the ones that _can_ watch him are probably not really all that interested in his bathing habits…

But he's still hesitating in front of his shower, completely naked, like he's expecting the shower to attack him. Or, not, not attack him, but…

Ever since Deadman _used_ the shower, just looking at the thing sent Sam's pulse up. He hasn't showered since, either, and it's starting to become noticeable.

"Tch," Sam mutters and then pushes forward. There's no one in, in the shower or his room, no one. And they'd all promised that the shower is private, so if he has a freakout or a panic attack, or something, better in the shower, where he'd have some semblance of privacy, than outside, where he is being recorded. Right? Right.

The shower is completely normal, but it's somehow different too. Sam's more aware of it than ever before – the texture of the surface under his feet, bumpy with some sort of anti-slippery design. The walls, the glass, the slight current of warm air that douses him before he even turns the water on. It's making the hair on his skin stand on its end, and he feels – he feels…

Sam turns the water on, lifting his face against it and hoping the hot water will wash away the prickling of his skin, the way his face feels hot. It doesn't – he's hyperaware of every droplet hitting his face, the way they trail down his neck and shoulders, down his back – every inch of his skin, he can _feel it_. It feels almost like – like when people touch him, but completely the opposite. He feels it, he's conscious of it, but it doesn't burn.

He thinks of Deadman there, pressing into his space, and there's the heat again, on his cheeks and inside his skin, making him shift his footing and squirm. There's an echo on his back, from when he backed away against the wall, how cold it felt against his bare shoulder, how Deadman was like a wall of heat in front of him, so close, close enough to touch, almost, almost touching…

Leaning his head back, Sam tries to exorcise the thought from his mind, but it presses down on him – like a presence, like body heat, like body odour, all the things people come with, just before they touch. Sam's skin is crawling with the memory, goosebumps rising all over, and even though he's standing under the downpour of hot water, he's shivering. Maybe he's getting sick, fuck. Wouldn't be a surprise, he's been climbing up and down the snowy mountain slopes for days…

Deadman didn't touch him. Pressed close up and into his personal space, too close for comfort, but he didn't touch.

Sam almost wishes he _had,_ because the imagined feeling is infinitely worse. Where would've he touched. His shoulder, his neck, his waist, chest, what, _where_. Instead of having that singular point of burning memory and discomfort, it's all over, pressing on him.

Without his own conscious thought, Sam turns around and leans back against the wall, just where Deadman pinned him. The shower seems bigger, now that he's alone in it – Deadman made it dark and closed it in, made it smaller, crowded, and that too was – it was a tangible sensation. Privacy. Handcuffs off and shutters down – the first bit of privacy Sam has had in months.

Sam has the cufflink on now – can't take it off on his own. Not a prisoner, but not free, either, is he? And they say they're not handcuffs, _sure_.

Tugging at the thing, Sam tucks his fingers under the cuff, and the link comes off – the main cuff stays on, but the monitor's dangling loose – along with Mama's cord cutter. Small thing, but with it off, his life signs aren't being monitored, right? That's why Mama had hers off, because she didn't have a pulse and didn't want people to know. So, with it off… people wouldn't know Sam's pulse was picking up speed. Almost like he's having a panic attack.

But it's not that, is it. Shit, it's been – it's been months. Maybe years, he's not sure, he's never been terribly into the stuff, but he's not so out of the loop that he can't tell what his body is doing… most of the time. And this he knows.

As if receiving a permission, his dick twitches between his legs, feeling heavier. Sam glances down at it. "Seriously?" he murmurs, not that the thing will answer, or listen. No, it's definitely plumping up with interest at something he himself just feels mostly confused about.

There's the memory of Deadman's arm, slamming into the wall just past his head, caging him in and blocking him out, and with another twitch his dick jostles to life.

Sam thumps his head against the wall behind him, once and then again. "Seriously?" he asks again. "Seriously."

Yeah, apparently, seriously. And it's like his mind is picking up speed too, because he can almost see the guy there, pushing into his space again, pinning him down and breathing hotly in his ear, close enough to _feel_ his breath, as water cascaded down on them both, bouncing off Deadman and into him, soaking them both through, so close, so _close._

Sam's heart is pounding harder by the moment, and he considers turning the water on cold to put a stop to it. But…

It's been months.

And his life is fucked up enough as it is.

Thumping his head against the wall again, Sam shifts his footing – and immediately he can imagine it, Deadman's knee, pushing between his legs to pin him down more. _Fuck_ , just the imagined sensation makes his inner thighs burn and tense, and his knees shiver like they want to lock, like they want to buckle. Sam thumps his head against the wall, and the sound turns into Deadman's hand, slamming on the wall, as Sam's pinned down again, Deadman's shadow heavy and hot on him, like a blanket, like a prison.

Sam can feel his face twist, not sure what expression he's trying to bite back, but it's not pretty.

He grabs his now fully hard dick in both hands, and gives into the inevitable, imagining Deadman pressing closer, closer, the body heat radiating off him in a hot, inescapable wave, a forewarning of the touch that's coming, the press, all of that weight and bulk and body about to press against him, from knee to shoulder, just fucking _smothering him_ -

Sam bites back a groan – he's barely even stroking himself, he's just gripping desperately, and it's enough, it's too much. It's been _so long_. The imagined heat permeates everything and scorches through him, leaving him burnt and spent and wrecked, and he struggles between trying to back away and through the wall, and to push forward, and into it and –

"Ngh," Sam strangles out, and his dick lets loose a helpless little spurt just before his knee gives out from under him and he slips down a little. Deadman's leg isn't there, supporting him, and he almost falls over onto the shower floor, his dick still twitching and going off in his hand, the most awkward fucking thing, and – _fuck_. He's not sure if it's good or terrible, but it's something, it's –

Sam strokes himself, gasping for a wet breath, and then he's coming properly, still pathetically fast, spilling down onto the shower floor. It drains down with the water still coming down, and he's burning, he's burning all over – oh, _oh fuck_ -

Sam ends up on his knees, still twisting his cock in his hand in the empty shower, with hot water washing his oversensitive skin. It takes him a moment to gather his wits enough to reach over to turn the water off, and then he's left with the realisation of what he just did. His skin is still crawling with it, like he'd been touched, all over, like he'd been fucking _groped_ and –

"Seriously?" Sam murmurs and looks down. His dick still looks… full. What the fuck.

"EX grenade error," the automated system says, muffled through the shower wall. "Sterilising shower."

"Seriously," Sam says, and thumps his head against the shower wall again, as the water starts coming down anew. "Fuck."

* * *

Sam doesn't have the time to think about what happened – not that he _wants_ to, anyway. He has a medical device to deliver to the Mountaineer, and it's not a short trip by any means. It feels even longer, without BB, but she's still in Deadman's hands, undergoing the operation, and despite everything, Sam trusts the guy. He has no idea what he thinks of him, but… he trusts him.

At least the cold keeps him from thinking anything more – there's nothing but to move out there, move of freeze. And he almost does that anyway – by the time he makes back to Mountain Knot after good five days in the mountains, his fingers and toes are numb with frost and he feels frozen to the core. He wants nothing more than a hot bath and sleep – preferably in that order. And maybe, before or after, an update on BB. If Deadman decided to deliver.

There's a mail waiting for him when he finally makes it back to the distro center and down to the private room given to him. It's from Heartman – commenting on _Extracurricular uses of the shower_ and how he had, _added a new privacy function._ Should Sam want, he could just turn it on, and the shower would not… collect materials from him.

"Fuck's sake," Sam mutters, running a hand over his face – but his fingers are white and lack feeling, and he doesn't have the space of mind to care.

He still hesitates before entering the shower, his clothing scattered across the floor – there's two awkward memories related to this specific fucking shower, and he's not sure he can fit in there with them taking all that space… but the frostbite makes the decision for him. If nothing else, the ensuing burning of his fingers and toes as proper blood flow returns keeps him from getting… affected by the memories. It's not quite as exciting, is it, when bits of him are pins and needles, aching with the clash of frost and heat…

And yet, he's still hyperaware of his dick in a way he's usually not. He keeps _feeling_ it, there, how cold his thighs feel next to it, how water trails down, trickling down his balls –

There's a snap in the air, a chiralgram appearing. "Sam? Oh, you're in the shower – ah."

Every nerve ending in Sam's body seems to _scream_ all at once, as if he was in BT's presence – every inch of his skin crawling. Sam barely dares to look over his shoulder – but of course, of course it's Deadman. His chiralgram, anyway.

Deadman is somewhere in Mountain Knot City, close enough that his image is perfectly detailed, not a hint of flicker. Like he was really there, just a few steps away, with nothing but air and a sheet of glass in between.

Sam's dick decides it's not too cold after all, and quickly Sam turns his back to Deadman's image, smothering a curse. _Fuck_.

"I have some good news, Sam. Your BB's operation went perfectly," Deadman says, and Sam can feel his stare like a _brand_ on his back, can feel it wandering. "There is still a bit of ways to go, but bringing the Mountaineer's shelter into the network increased the chiral density enough to bring the BB closer to the Beach – or the Beach closer to us, as it were."

"Right," Sam says, strangled. It's like – like hands on him, fingers, trailing down his skin, leaving marks. He can almost feel the red welts they leave in their wake, where his skin thinks it's getting a burn, where his fucking aphenphosmphobia somehow by some bullshit psychology magic convinces his cells they're being damaged. It hurts, it burns, and fuck, he's so _hot_. "Right."

"Are you alright, Sam?" Deadman asks, too perceptive for anyone's good, and yet not perceptive enough.

Sam's throat works and he manages to say, "Cold," somehow. "Just got b-back."

"Yes, I know, it's why I made my appearance now. I thought I should deliver the good news in, ah, person," Deadman says and the voice crawls up and down Sam's spine, like a fingertip, brushing against the vertebrae. There's a moment of silence, and Sam really should look back, to see what the fuck the guy is thinking or doing – "Speaking of appearances…"

Sam's spine snaps straight as the glass door window separating the shower swishes open and there's a sudden breath of colder air against his back. The lighting changes, and Sam looks over his shoulder, eyes wider, as the chiralgram steps into the shower, looking so fucking real the only reason he knows it isn't is because the water is going right through Deadman, and the shower isn't complaining about excess weight.

Deadman turns his wrist and Sam can feel his cuffs releasing. "Take them off," he says.

Sam shivers and takes the cuffs off – what the fuck else can he do?

"Throw them to your bed."

Sam does that too, as ordered. The moment the cuffs are out, the shower doors slide back shut and with a twist of his wrist, Deadman turns them to privacy mode, enclosing them in.

"There," the scientist says. "I have managed to modify my own cuffs so that no one can listen or record me through them, but your cuffs are not yet modified – I will get on it tonight, while you sleep. For now, it's better to be safe than sorry."

Sam doesn't dare to answer – he's not sure what he might let slip if he did. Deadman's not there, there's no body heat, no body odour, he's just an image – but the image alone is making Sam _quiver_.

"I have been looking further into the matter we previously discussed," Deadman says. "The files are still a little scattered, but with more chiral bandwidth and with everyone's attention on the Doctor and his companion's new advancements, I have been given some leeway…"

He trails away and Sam knows he's fucked.

"Sam," Deadman says.

Sam glares at the shower wall, leaning one hand against it, feeling like he's standing with a blazing fire just at his back, scorching through him. His fingers and toes still feel off, like they're only half there – but center mass is only feeling the heat, and it's going downward fast. He's trembling now, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

"I – it is for appearances' sake," Deadman says, distant – he sounds almost confused, like there's something to be confused about. "For people to assume what they wish, which will ensure us – privacy without people prying – there are so few things people consider a taboo, these days, and voyeurism…"

Sam bows his head, feeling his back tighten, like he's been shocked, like someone's thrown an electrified spear at him. Fucking _voyeurism._

Deadman is quiet, just for a moment, his shadow on Sam's back and against the darkened walls shifting as he tilts his head, as he takes in the situation. "Turn around."

Sam turns, his back pressing up against the wall, and Deadman looks him up and down and sees all. "Ah," he says, like he gets it, which is rich, because Sam doesn't get this at all, he can barely think, never mind comprehend what the fuck is going on. His heart is going a mile a minute – if he had been wearing the cuffs they'd be screaming at him to calm down, probably. The noise is deafening, his blood in his ears and the cascade of water.

Deadman shifts his weight, staring as the water rains through him. His hands hover like he doesn't know what to do with them.

He reaches out, and Sam draws a sharp breath, plastering himself against the wall, whole body shaking with the strain to keep that distance. It doesn't even matter that Deadman's just a fucking chiralgram – it's not like Sam's brain can tell the difference. Deadman might be wearing gloves, clothing, be an intangible fucking image, but if he _touches_ him -

"Well," Deadman says, his fingers twitching just ten centimetres off Sam's heaving chest. "Isn't this an impasse."

"Deadman," Sam says, and it comes out all wrong, neither a warning, or a growl, or anything reasonable. It's a whine, a plea, and it's out before Sam can stop it.

"Hmm," the scientist answers, tilting his head, puzzling him out. "Aphenphosmphobia always seemed like a sad condition, to me," he comments. "Humans so crave to touch and to be touched. What it must be like, to crave it and fear it, all at once?"

Sam can't even think to what to say to that, never mind actually _saying_ it.

Deadman's hand hovers and Sam can _feel it,_ like he's something hot, something cold, something _tangible_. It's making Sam's skin itch and shiver, as the hand trails down, not near enough to touch, but still _so fucking close_.

It lowers, and Sam's body wants to grind in the air, into Deadman's gaze and the suggestion of contact.

"I'm not really here," Deadman says, considering and remorseful. "But you would not let me touch even if I were, would you?"

Sam thinks of saying – it's fine, with gloves, with clothes. It's not, not great, but it doesn't _hurt_ when there's clothes in between. He thinks Deadman could touch him with a gloved hand, and there wouldn't be a burn, if he wasn't too hard about it. He could touch, and Sam thinks… thinks he would let him.

His throat works as he swallows the words, sentence by sentence, until he's sure none of them will slip loose.

Deadman glances at his face, fascinated and daring and just a little bit mean. "You will have to touch yourself for me."

The noise slips past Sam's clenched teeth without his say so, and he closes his eyes, fuck _shut up,_ he thinks, _shut up, shut up, shut up -_

"Touch yourself, Sam. I want to see it."

Sam's fingers feel like little blocks of ice, as he curls them around his dick, and he hisses, his ass coming off the wall as he tries to push into it and away from it, the sensation confusing and too much and too _cold_. There's hot water raining down on his crotch, Deadman tinkering with the spray somehow at a distance, and it's making everything better and worse, making everything tingle and burn until he's not sure where his fingers end and his dick begins, all becoming one big ball of confused sensation.

Deadman leans closer, leaning in as Sam withers and tries to draw away, except there's no place to escape, nowhere – he would have to touch the man to get away from him, there's no escape. His dick twitches and his fingers grip as Deadman leans in – there's no breath, no smell, no sensation, but his _voice_ comes directly from his lips. And it's right in Sam's ear.

"Stroke," Deadman murmurs, low.

Sam whimpers, he can't stop it – and then he strokes, once, awkwardly, too tight and not tight enough all at once, almost losing his grip. Damn, it's terrible.

"Careful," Deadman says, almost admonishing. "Slower, don't let go. Stop under the head, there, under the corona, that's it –"

Sam's smothered words and badly withheld noises escape in a moan as he moves his hand, stopping where Deadman tells him to stop, and moving where Deadman tells him to move. How fast the guy gets into it is fucking _wild_ , but Sam doesn't have the brain power to comprehend it – he just –

"Thumb it, rub your thumb over the head, there, that's it, now pull back the foreskin – perfect, that's perfect, Sam," Deadman says, watching so fucking closely. "Is that good? Answer me, Sam."

"I don't – I don't know," Sam grunts through clenched teeth. All he can feel is tingling and burning and _pressure_ , he's not sure if it feels good or not. Everything's all mixed up. "Fuck – Deadman –"

"Down again," Deadman says. "Twist your hand a little – can you spread your stance, Sam?"

Sam can and does, without even thinking about it, and Deadman looks down intently, leaning one hand on the wall beside Sam's head – caging him in, again. His other hand hovers over Sam's.

"Go on," he says. "Stroke it, however you like."

Sam grunts, stroking, trying not to make it hurt, but he's burning, all over, and Deadman's intangible weight is making it hard to think, to move, to _anything_. "Good," Deadman murmurs, his voice breathy and hot now, affected, behind his glasses his eyes are low-lidded and appreciative. "That's very good Sam."

Is it? Sam can't tell, but he's on the brink of something, a cliff, and he's pretty sure there's rock underneath, and he's about to trash his body down on them and repatriate. " _Deadman_ ," he grinds through his teeth, desperate, barely able to drag enough breath.

Deadman looks up at his face, his hand hovering just centimetres off from the one Sam has gripping his dick. "Go on, Sam," he urges him. "Go on. Just a little further. You can do it."

Sam shakes his head, his body tense, shaking and straining, he wants to thrust, to curl up and not move, to grind against Deadman, to _not move_ – god, he's so, so close...

"Go on, Sam," Deadman says, eager. "Go on."

Sam hisses a curse through his teeth, feeling the muscles of his belly jumping as the release ploughs through him like a truck, tumbling over a cliff, and into an abyss. Deadman looks down, watches the whole thing happen, and Sam burns, and pulses, _breaks_ …

Everything whites out like the side of a mountain in a blizzard and when Sam finally manages to blink vision back into his eyes, his heartbeat is coming down and the only sound he hears is the coursing of the shower, and Deadman's breathing in his ear, heavy enough that Sam can almost feel it, washing over wet skin. Immediately, his skin prickles up, painful.

Deadman looks at his face and Sam avoids his eye, looking at the shower wall and then closing his eyes, biting his teeth firmly together against ragged breaths.

"Well," Deadman says after a while and coughs, stepping back. "I should… go back to work. There's still calibration to be done – a-and you need your rest."

Sam swallows, and a long awkward moment later, there's a snap of the chiralgram disappearing, leaving him alone in the shower. Sam stays still for a moment, barely breathing, before his knees finally give out and he collapses on the shower floor in a heap, like he's just come off the Seam and gravity decides to catch up with him.

"EX grenade error," the automated system outside reports. "Engaging privacy settings."

Well… better late than never.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for hypothermia and considerations of death by said hypothermia.
> 
> ...and smut

Sam heads out first thing next morning, resolutely thinking of nothing but his next delivery. The Mountaineer wants something delivered to someone, and it would take him days traversing the mountains, and Sam might end up with a frostbite again, but – but that would be infinitely easier to handle than the shitstorm going on in his head.

Deadman hadn't came to see him. Sam had expected him to, but there was nothing, no message, no chiralgram, not even a call. If the cuffs had been modified during the night, Sam hadn't noticed. He has no idea what to think about that, but he hadn't exactly waited to find out either, so that's probably telling.

It's two days to make it to the Mountaineer, taking shelter in caves and under cliffs, freezing his ass off. He's just lucky that cryptobiotes don't care about the weather or temperature and their corals grow under the snow, same as they do in warmer, sunnier places. They're warmer than the snow, too. The only bit of warmth between here and there. Still gross, though.

"I've got another delivery for you," the Mountaineer says while Sam tries to warm up his aching fingers by blowing on them. "Now, she's a strange bird, lives higher up in the clouds than we do…"

Another prepper, further up. Another day wading through the snow, and another day added to his return trip – it would be five days in total before he made it back to Mountain Knot, if he did. Sam's never frozen to death before – maybe it'd be the one to stick. He always returns to his body, and his body is always restored when he does, but what if it's frozen solid and can't move, would it be stuck where it fell, eventually buried in ice, forever trapped? Never to see BB again, never too see Deadman…

"I don't suppose there are any safehouses in between?" Sam asks, shuddering.

"I think there was talk of building one not far from her shelter, actually," the Mountaineer says. "I don't know if it's been finished though, it's been a while since there's been porters moving about the area, but I'm pretty sure the foundations were laid down."

Sam hums. Foundations wouldn't help him.

"Tell you what, I'll loan you the materials to finish it," the Mountaineer says. "Or, hell, take them. It's a long way there, and you've earned it – and anything I can do to help you porters out, I might as well, right? It'll benefit me too, in the long run."

Sam imagined carrying the materials to finish a safehouse and smothers a groan. And here he was looking forward to an easy trip with the Mountaineer's package. "Thanks," he says anyway. "Appreciate it."

It's the worst trek in the mountains so far, and they've none of them been that great. He's just an hour out of the Mountaineer's place when the wind begins to pick up speed and a blizzard starts building up on the mountainside. Within an hour, it's whipping up shards of ice in his face, and Sam's completely blind in it, barely able to make any progress forward, feeling like he's pushing against an invisible icy wall, making only incremental progress.

Everything fades but the frozen wind and snow – time becomes abstract, and Sam would lose all sense of direction or progress if it weren't for the odradek. _This way,_ it points him, with the distance between him and his destination slowly, slowly ticking down. Just twenty kilometres. Just fifteen. Just eight...

Up in the mountains and in a blizzard, it might just as well be eighty.

The snow is so thick in the air that by the time he sees something, he's not sure what it is. A marker on the odradek – no, a light, electric – the safehouse foundations!

Just twenty metres, and they feel like so much longer, as he wades through the thick, heavy snow to the structure. The foundations are almost completely buried, with the light on top barely visible. The machine makes a sad sounding noise as Sam, with numb and clumsy hands, feeds it the materials it needs to finish building itself. He freezes what's left of his ass at that point, waiting for the construction to finish, but, frozen or not, abandoned or not… finish it does.

It almost looks like it's floating in the middle of white nothingness, with nothing around to tell the landscape apart. Nothing but snow.

Sam limps onto the finished platform, his limbs aching and clothing frozen stiff, and fills the elevator shaft with snow, going down.

* * *

"Sam, Sam!"

Sam struggles his way to wakefulness. There's water on his face, and he feels wet and cold all over – did he fall into a river? It almost feels like it, but so much worse.

"That's it, that's it," the distant voice says. "You passed out – went into a hypothermic shock. You need to get up, Sam, and take off your clothes, and get into the shower, now."

Sam lifts his head, eyes bleary and lashes wet. "Deadman?"

The guy is bent down, looking at him worriedly.

"I'd help you up, but I'm not really here – Fragile is just on her way, she can jump me over if I need to," Deadman says. "Sam, please – get in the shower."

Sam stares at him and then lets his head drop down on the floor again. There's a puddle of water around him, he's lying in it. "Not, not now," he says, his voice slurring. "Tired."

"I know you feel like that, but you're not – you're suffering the effects of hypothermia, and you need to get out of those clothes and warm up before you end up dying," Deadman says urgently. "And I know you can repatriate, but – just get up, Sam."

Sam closes his eyes, sighing.

"Sam," Deadman says and then again, " _Sam_ , don't you dare fall asleep."

"Just – moment," Sam sighs.

"I'll have to touch you if you don't get up."

It doesn't register at first, just random words in a row, meaningless. Then Sam's brain catches on the _have to_ , and wonders how long he'd need to stay still before Deadman would. It would burn, he knows. Burn a hole right through him and scorch him to a crisp. Deadman would have to touch him. At least then, he'd be warm.

Then he actually catches his brain and picks it up from the puddle of melted snow and frowns. Touch him, Deadman would touch him.

There's a snap of the chiralgram and then another, similar but different snap of Fragile's Jump, and Sam startles into near coherence as he feels the weight of Deadman's presence, tangible and _there_ , like a wall of human body heat, coming closer fast.

Sam lifts his head just in time to stop Deadman from grabbing his arm.

Their eyes meet and water trails down Sam's cheek, cold.

"Get up, Sam," Deadman orders, down on one knee beside him. "And get in the shower."

Slowly, still staring at the guy, Sam gets a hand under him and then another, pushing himself up. He's still in full gear – no one there to strip him in his sleep. As he sways under the weight of his cargo, Deadman stands up, watching him, following.

"Take off the backpack," the man tells him and Sam fumbles for buckles and straps. Instinct makes him catch the thing by a shoulder strap before it crashes to the floor and damages the cargo, but with his stiff fingers he barely makes to slow it down before it slips through.

"Boots," Deadman says, and Sam clumsily stumbles out of them. "Now your suit."

Sam breathes heavily in and out and wrings himself out of the suit, almost falling over before the thing lays in a wet pile on the floor. Deadman doesn't have to tell him to take off the rest, Sam's on with the program now, and he's finally starting to feel the cold… or maybe it's the heat, he can't really tell.

Naked and shivering, Sam stumbles into the shower and turns on the water – but it doesn't work. Instead the air dryer turns on, blasting his body with air that feels too hot and too cold all at once, leaving him swaying and shivering and confused.

"S-shower," he says.

"Direct heat to the skin after suffering hypothermia might cause damage, or worse, cardiac arrest," Deadman says. "And even lukewarm water will feel scalding to you, right now – you need to dry up more than anything, for now. Don't rub yourself either, you'll just end up hurting yourself."

Sam shakily leans on the wall and tries to argue, but he can't quite think of a way how. The air flows over him, too much of everything all at once, and he lists down on weak and suddenly shaking knees and then just sits there, on the bottom of the still dry shower. Outside, Deadman moves about the room, collecting Sam's things from the floor, hanging his suit and boots up in the chiralium-scrubbing case.

At some point, Sam begins to shiver, his toes and feet going from numb to aching, to solid _pain_. He concentrates on breathing through it, holding his hands to his warmer chest, trying to get some warmth to his feet too, and then he's just shaking and cold.

Deadman's wrist snaps again, and the airflow ceases, leaving Sam sitting on the shower floor, nowhere near warm. "Your body temperature fell down to 33.1 degrees Celsius," the man says, watching him. "Raise it too fast, and we risk heart failure. Into the bed, Sam."

It takes a moment before Sam can move. Every joint feels tight and weak, and his muscles are useless, frozen stiff and unwilling to stretch. Like an old man, he turns, still holding his hands to his chest, still hurting.

His head spins, confused and bleary, as Deadman pulls the bed cover down and Sam stops, looking at it.

"Get in, Sam," Deadman tells him, tugging at the cover, half welcoming and half demanding. "Getting under the covers will preserve body heat and help you warm up."

"S-so would shower."

"Just get on the bed, Sam."

Deadman's hand is on the bed, holding the cover, though. If Sam goes in, he'll have to get within touching range. And Deadman's no chiralgram this time. What if – what if –?

Deadman sighs. "Sam," he says, insistent. "Now, please."

Sam lowers his chin and then steps closer half a step, and then another, before, bare and shivering, crawling into bed. His extremities ache and quiver and recoil – god, Deadman's so _close –_ and then Sam lies down awkwardly on his side, trembling in every limb.

He fully expects Deadman to climb in with him. He doesn't.

Sam's breath stutters as the man drags the blanket over him, feeling every brush of the fabric, every body hair that snags against the thing – over his shoulder and waist, before Deadman tugs it over his legs too, leaving him under it from neck to toe, shuddering under the mixed sensation of cold skin and frozen fingers and toes, with the rasp of fabric –

"Warmer?" Deadman asks.

Shuddering and confused, Sam just shakes his head.

Deadman hums, concerned. "And you don't have thermal pads here either," he murmurs, glancing around.

"Could've just – let me shower –"

"Tsk," Deadman says and, to Sam's horrified fascination, begins taking off his coat. "Those showers are terribly designed. Two temperatures only, carefully calculated as the preferred averages for human use. Supposedly it saves water, but neither is suitable for this situation. Use the shower now, and you will go into shock for sure, or worse."

Sam watches him, breathing harder, as Deadman shrugs the coat off and leaves it on the table before taking off his shoes too. He does something with his cuff, and the lights of the room dim. 

What the noise Sam makes when Deadman sits beside him is, he can't tell, but Deadman shushes him for it anyway. "Move over," the man says, and Sam wiggles back more in alarm than to make space, trying to hold onto the blankets, but his fingers refuse to move right. The bed shifts, heavy, and the blanket is pinned down as Deadman lies down beside him.

Sam gulps for a breath, trapped between the man, the blanket, the wall behind him. Already Deadman's body heat is seeping into the blanket, and it's _scalding_ , it's –

"Shh, Sam," Deadman says while taking off his glasses. "We're just going to lie here until you're warm, it's alright –"

It isn't, _it isn't_. Sam can feel him, his weight, the bulk of his body, how it unbalances the bed. His legs, so close to Sam's legs, his stomach pressing against Sam, his hands are so close, all he has to do is place one down, and Sam would be caged in again, trapped under by not just its presence, but its _weight_ –

He's cold, and shaken, and hypothermic, and on top of everything else, he can feel Deadman's warmth, and every aching cell of his body craves it, leans into it. It's enough to make him hyperventilate.

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay," Deadman murmurs. "You'll be alright."

No, he wouldn't, Sam thinks and leans in, shuddering. He's never going to be alright again.

* * *

Sam's in a haze, quivering. He feels tingly and hot and heavy, a radiator of warmth behind him, weight around him, holding him, his body boiling. Everything is confusing, almost pleasant and almost suffocating.

He can feel the breath on the back of his neck, hot and damp, and it flushes heat through his body. "Sam," Deadman's voice says, low and right in his ear. "Are you awake?"

Sam swallows a groan as his body tiredly jumps at the sound, leaving quivering heat in its wake. "Fuck," he says. "How long –?"

"Four hours, approximately," Deadman says and doesn't move. "I caught an hour of sleep myself, hope you don't mind."

Sam can't think of what to say to that. The implication mutes him – that he slept at all, that Deadman did too, that they're still there, on the bed, Deadman _at his bac_ k –

The man's arm is around Sam's waist, a warm even with the blanket between them. Their bodies are pressed together, they're _spooned_ together, and it must've helped, too, because he can only feel faint tingling in his toes now – the rest of him is more than warm. The hypothermia is all gone.

Deadman clears his throat. "I – made a small modification to the safehouse, a glitch which will sort itself out once you depart," he says. "The room is currently not on the network. No one is watching."

The hell is that supposed to mean?

Oh.

Sam swallows, staring fixedly at the wall. Fuck.

"I am still digging into files I probably shouldn't," Deadman says, while Sam's world slowly condenses into this room, to the bed, to the awareness that he's completely naked under the blanket. Every point where they connect is starting to tingle, like pins and needles. "As I said before, with more bandwidth, I gain more access and more lost files become accessible – and with people distracted elsewhere, hopefully, they might not notice me looking into these things. There is something about the BB research that's beginning to bother me, deeply."

Sam should answer, say something, anything. He's completely distracted by the arm on his waist and how it's not burning him. It's right there, Deadman's body is pressed against his back, heavy and solid, and he _feels_ it, but it doesn't... _hurt_.

Damn if it's not doing _something_ though, the feeling, the seeping heat, the voice just behind his ear, speaking so low and intimate. Sam feels his face begin flushing as his body tries to make up its mind on whether this is good or not. It's something, definitely.

"BB?" Sam asks, strained.

"Well on her way to recovery, and not what I mean. How did technology like the BBs fall into terrorist hands in the first place – and did Bridges continue their use of BBs because of it, was it coincidental? It doesn't seem to add up," Deadman trails away and then, after a moment goes, "Sam?"

Sam swallows and wonders if he could just ignore it. Probably not. What's the point even, Deadman would know anyway. And it's not like he's…

"Deadman," Sam says, rough, and doesn't look at him.

Deadman is quiet for a moment. "Hmm," he then hums, interested, and it goes right through Sam, all the way through. "May I touch you now, Sam?" Deadman asks, staying carefully still.

"I don't know," Sam chokes out, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut, even as his dick fucking _leaps_ to life under the blanket.

"I see." Another moment as Deadman thinks, and Sam begins to _burn_ under his weight, his arm, his gaze, the knowledge that Deadman is thinking of how to fuck him this time. "I would very much like to touch you, Sam. And I am – my arm doesn't seem to bother you now. Is it the clothing in between?"

Overly observant son of a bitch. "I don't – maybe, yeah?"

Deadman hums, thoughtful, and the weight on Sam's waist shifts, Deadman lifting his hand. Sam holds still, feeling shaky to the core and then, with intent, the man puts his gloved hand on Sam's hip, fingers splayed out, heavy.

On their own, Sam's hips thrust forward, and Deadman's hand rides the motion, holding on. "Fuck," Sam groans, pressing his face into the pillow. 

"I do believe that was a good reaction," Deadman murmurs against the blanket covering Sam's shoulder. "And a _very_ good noise. May I, Sam?"

Sam breathes, shaky, not sure what to do with his hands and ultimately doing nothing, just resting them on the mattress in front of him, under the blanket, fingers curled tightly in. His whole body seems to throb with his heartbeat.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah – Deadman –"

Deadman hums, pleased. His hand moves, oh so slowly, over the swell of Sam's hip and then descends in the front. His fingers are following the line of Sam's hipbone, pressing on each side, and Sam couldn't stop himself from moving into it if he tried.

"I did wonder how you would feel," the scientist murmurs, hot, his words feeling almost damp on the blanket in between his mouth and Sam's skin. "Your body fat ratio is nearly non-existent, to an unhealthy degree, Sam. Nothing but skin and muscle and sinews and bone. Of course you'd feel _hard_."

Sam bites his lip. Deadman must feel it now, the shape of his dick under the blanket, jumping eagerly at the pressure. And, fuck, he can feel Deadman too, pressing against him from behind – the belly pressing against Sam's back, like a puzzle piece fitting right in as he arches. It pushes his ass in the valley of Deadman's hips, and there, the man's dick, eager and unashamed and barely hindered by the cloth in between.

Deadman presses his hand down, thrusts his hips, and Sam's own body shudders, pinned and helpless. He's forced to resort to biting his knuckles to keep himself from crying out – it's the most anyone touched him in so long, and fuck, _fuck._

Deadman isn't very careful about it – it's kind of awkward and clumsy, the man rutting against Sam's ass while groping his crotch, but it's not rough. Despite everything in between, Deadman feels around him just so, somehow curling his hands around Sam until his now almost painfully hard dick is enclosed in fabric, with Deadman's gloved grip around it, and it's too much dry friction to really feel good, but it's enough, the thrust of Deadman's hips, keeping him trapped.

Sam gasps wetly against the pillow, and he can't help it, thrusting into it, his body feeling bruised and used and just on the edge of discomfort, but it's, it's enough – it's –

Deadman groans in his ear, " _Sam_ ," and Sam almost bangs his head back against his face, startled by the noise of unadulterated _pleasure_ coming off the guy. He becomes aware of the man's breathing, how uncoordinated the his thrusts are getting, how tight he grips –

Sam gasps and glances back as he comes to the somehow stupid, belated realisation that Deadman's going to come too, that he'd getting something out of this too, that this isn't something that's happening to just Sam's body, something that's being _done_ to just _him,_ but rather something they're doing together – 

"Deadman," he breathes, shocked and shaken, and then groans as the guy pumps his hand, tight and too dry and _awful_. Sam comes in helpless jolts, soaking through the blanket, and Deadman keeps pumping him with it, messy and too tight and kind of desperate.

"Sam, _Sam_ ," Deadman groans, shifting restlessly against his back. He's trying to stop – he's thinking that he, that he had to stop...

Sam slumps down, panting for breath and then clumsily tilts his ass to the man, grinding back, offering – it's only right… right?

Deadman lets out a wonderful, relieved noise and then grabs his hip and just uses him, chasing his own release, rutting into the swell of Sam's ass and all the cloth between them without a hint of restraint. Sam rocks under it, feeling limp and useless and weirdly more than okay with it. It almost feels sort of good, to feel it, to know...

Deadman pants against his back, and then comes to a stuttering, gasping halt, while gripping Sam's hip hard enough to bruise. And yet somehow, it doesn't hurt - it feels a bit like he's gone through a wringer and then got left to roast in the sun, his whole back from neck to toe feels _sunburnt_ … but it doesn't hurt. Behind him Deadman collapses against Sam's back, the distance in between more theoretical than actually real, and together they lay, panting for breath in a messy, tangled heap.

Or maybe it does hurt, but it's a good hurt, hell if Sam knows. Deadman just _came_ against his ass - he doesn't have the presence of mind to care. 

"Now," Deadman says, eventually, his voice breathy and low. " _Now_ I think shower might be not only safe, but required."

Unable to help himself, Sam snorts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU-fying timeline here for my own nefarious purposes because I just think it's a rotten shame.

Sam's alone when he wakes up next morning, with only the faintest memory of how he got to sleep after the shower. Deadman had been there, but then he wasn't, which… wasn't that surprising, really. The guy has a lot of work. And so does Sam. And staying indoors doing whatever, it wouldn't get BB back to him, nor would it solve any of the ongoing issues. Never mind that it's an issue on it's own… kind of.

Sam sets out early, trying not to think about it, no matter how it lingers, the night and its improvised touches, its pressures, its releases. He's in a good mood, and it's weird and a weirdly guilty feeling – that Deadman had made him feel… better. About what, Sam's not so sure. About being alone? Or _not_ being alone? About life in general? Might be just the physical thing, or maybe a mental thing. It's been a while. And Sam knows, better than anyone, those mental things people get from physical contact… or don't, in his case.

Makes thinking about the night hard. Makes not imagining maybe one day having a night similar to it harder. It had been a… a second time, of sorts. Once is a mistake, twice is a pattern, and three times…?

Sam shakes the thought from his head, embarrassed, and then shoulders his backpack and heads out. The weather's not cleared at all outside – if anything, it's gotten worse. The moment the elevator brings him up he's in the heart of a blizzard again, blinded by it and almost knocked off his feet by it. The odradek points his way, and Sam braces himself against the wind. At least he's warm, right now. Might as well see how far it would take him, until he got cold again.

He's almost at the Spiritualist's place, when Lockne calls him to tell him that it's no normal blizzard – it's a storm that's going on, and worse. Another supercell is forming, a _chiral_ storm, and considering the last Sam was in… "Be careful, Sam," she says over the call. "It's still picking up speed, and we're not sure where the eye is forming, but wherever it is…"

"There might be more temporal phenomena?" Sam asks.

"Maybe. Just watch yourself."

"Will do," Sam says and ends the call.

The Spiritualist is happy to get her thing, and, judging by the sound of it, happy to have someone listen to what she has to say. Sam doesn't get much of it, but when does he ever understand the stuff preppers obsess over? A lot of them have weird things they end up dedicating their everything to. Supposedly a way to keep sane when cooped up indoors all the time, for years on end…

"I am ready," she says, smiling. "Connect me to the chiral network. I am ready to be part of something bigger."

Sam says nothing – just takes out the Q-pid and holds into the terminal – hoping this will be enough for Deadman's work and that he'd finally get BB back. And then… fuck. Back to saving the world, maybe. Connecting America. All that. Moving further and further west, and further away from the east.

Capital Knot seems like it was ages ago now, in another world, another timeline.

The Spiritualist's shelter joins the network, and the bandwidth increases by a few ticks. While Sam puts the Q-Pid away, wondering if it's time he starts planning return journey to Mountain Knot City, there's a flicker of a chiralgram in front of him. Deadman, in a suit and tie, looking impeccable as usual.

Fuck, Sam hopes the sudden heat on his cheek can be chalked off as frostbite.

"Sam, good news," Deadman says, watching him closely. "BB-28 is in excellent condition. I have done the final adjustments and run diagnostics, and she's more than ready to return to the field with you."

Sam's heart leaps. "And her memory?" he asks. Deadman said she might forget him and everything they've gone through so far, as part of the operation.

"Too soon to tell, but she hasn't shown any sign of homesickness or lingering attachments, so, perhaps," Deadman says, and he actually sounds a bit sympathetic this time. Just a bit. "Now all that remains is for you to pick her up and hook the pod up, take it for a run. There is just one… problem."

Sam frowns. "Problem," he repeats.

"I was hoping to return the BB-28 to you as soon as possible, so I thought ahead a little," Deadman says and glances away, almost sheepishly, gesticulating with his hands as he talks. "And figured I might as well run the initial tests myself, speed things along – so I took your BB out on a little field test. It was my intention to head back to Mountain Knot immediately after, but with the supercell headed for the city…"

"Fragile can't jump you?" Sam asks, flat.

"For safety reasons, no," Deadman agrees. "But on the brighter side, I am not far from where you are right now. There's an old, Bridges owned cabin, just a little ways from your route back to Mountain Knot – a minor detour, really. Think you can meet us here?"

Sam just stares at him for a moment. Of all the things…geez. Deadman is the worst liar ever. "Right," Sam says, shifting his weight. It might've been _ages_ for him, since he even thought about shit like this, but… _meet me at a private mountain cabin_? Really? "Right – guess I'll meet you there. Is there – anything I should… bring?"

Deadman blinks and then coughs. "No, I think we have everything we need here. You just bring yourself."

Right.

* * *

The cabin is old style – built, rather than printed, sitting on stilts above the snow. The fact that it's still there at all, standing on the windswept snowy mountainside with its near constant frozen timefall is kind of impressive. Sam didn't even know Bridges had places like these left, holiday cabins and shit – though, there is probably a lot he doesn't know about Bridges.

Deadman waits for him by the door, waving at him at a distance, and Sam braves through the last of the snow, wading over to the cabin. The stilts are probably the reason it's still there, he muses while climbing the stairs – kept it above the snow, and away from it. Timefall in snow lingers longer than in normal water, it seems, and being set so far above it probably preserved the place.

"What do you think?" Deadman asks, motioning at the building.

"Looks fine," Sam says, a little wary, and looks at him. "A field test, really?"

"There _was_ a field test," Deadman says, defensive, and holds the door open for him. "The data might be completely pointless, overall, but I did perform tests."

Sam shakes his head. "Right. And Lou?" he asks.

"Right inside."

It's different, inside. Nothing at all like Bridges private rooms with their perfect sterile precision. This place is – somehow more haphazard. There's a couch that isn't built into the wall, table, chairs, all of them loose from the floor. The floor itself isn't metal, and neither are the walls or the ceiling. It takes Sam a moment to realise what it actually is. Wood. There's _wood panelling_ in the place.

There is also a fireplace, with an actual fire, or an electric fire, at any rate. Lou's pod is sitting not far from it, on a low table – the screen is turned off, and she's looking towards the fire, her little face fascinated.

"Lou," Sam murmurs, and goes to her, kneeling down and ignoring the tingling of Deadman's gaze, following him.

"She came out in tip top condition, I promise," Deadman says as he closed the door. "And should hopefully last for many more months in this state. But Sam – she's past her expiration date, now. There is no saying how the following months will go, or how long this will hold."

Sam's shoulders slump a little at that, as he lifts the pod and peers inside. Inside, Lou looks up at him and then shifts and gives him her back, looking almost shy – like she doesn't know him.

Sam trails his hand over the pod, feeling a stab of confused hurt, and then looks up at Deadman. The scientist watches them and then coughs, awkward. "This place has nothing in the way of monitoring," he comments and turns his hand. Without even looking, Sam can tell his handcuffs come off. "I figure you'd earned yourself a break, after the last few days. Break, away from all the watchful eyes."

Except his. Sam swallows, shrugging the cuff off and handing it over to Deadman before turning to Lou again. He wants to hook her in, but also – that, that would be awkward. With Deadman. With… whatever is going on. She looks so wary of him too, if he hooks her in, if there's another memory, if there's something…

Sam runs his hand over the pod, and the glass turns dark, closing her view of the world. The darkness would send her to sleep, it always did. She'd be okay that way.

"The little one should be working fine now," Deadman says, tilting his head. "You should try it."

"You didn't ask me here just to hand her over," Sam says gruffly and sets the pod back down. "Could've waited in Mountain Knot for that."

The words come out braver than he feels, and they make Deadman hesitate just a little before the man steps forward. "Well, no," he admits and coughs. "Do you want to – you should make yourself more comfortable. Get out of your gear, at least – with the storm going on, there's no hurry, surely," he says. "We aren't going anywhere for a while."

Sam can feel his cheeks heat up at that and looks away, gritting his teeth. Yeah.

Deadman watches him, eyes widening, obviously fascinated. "I thought we could…" he says and trails away. It hangs between them, the words settling heavy and neither says anything for a moment. Deadman waits, glancing between him, the darkened pod, and then the door, looking a little uncertain for once.

Sam – doesn't know what he wants, right then. His mind is like a truck, idling – burning power, but getting nowhere. But it's… it's cold outside. And there's the storm, picking up speed, building up energy. Not yet at the level of the storm of South Knot, but getting there.

Awkward, he loosens his backpack and unbuckles his cargo harness, letting both slide off and to the floor. Deadman watches them slip down, eyes following every move and Sam can almost feel it on his skin – he's wearing a suit but Deadman knows what he looks underneath and Sam can just _feel_ him imagining it.

It makes taking his timefall proof jumpsuit even worse, somehow – like he's, he's stripping for Deadman. Which he maybe is. And now that he's noticing it, there's no way to go about it normally – it gotta look awkward, like he's never fucking worn clothes before. He almost stumbles over himself, getting out of the thing. And Deadman's still watching.

Fuck, he looks like he's _appreciating_ it too.

"Where should I –?" Sam asks, holding the suit up. No chiralium-scrubbing case here.

"Over by the door will do," Deadman says and cough and moves to fiddle with something. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?

Sam hangs his suit up, eying it for a moment and wondering what the fuck is he doing, and why does it feel like his heart is about to kick it's way out of his chest. "Yeah," he says then, blowing out a breath. "Yeah, I am."

* * *

They eat – actual food, not liquid or living, which is a rarity for Sam. Most he eats these days is cryptobiotes and beer, which even he can figure out isn't terribly healthy, probably. Definitely not tasty either. The food Deadman brought probably isn't as good as the stuff you can get in cities, and he heats it up in the microwave, but it's still recognisably food, with vegetables and fake meat and everything.

It would probably be the best meal Sam's had in months, if he could stop and taste it. With every second that goes on, he gets more and more antsy and awkward and uneasy, and Deadman, for all his bravado and bluster, obviously isn't sure about this either. It's almost nice to see, but also terrifying. One of them should know what the hell they're on about, and it's definitely not Sam. What's Deadman actually trying though, Sam's not sure. Romance? _Seriously_.

Do they need that, do they have _time_ for that?

"It's nice to take a break sometimes," Deadman comments, while pouring Sam a glass of wine – it's the finest booze he's drank in a long ass time. "Don't you agree?"

Sam looks through the kitchen doorway at the living room, where Lou's pod sits, still darkened. "Mmh," he says, glancing at the glass.

Deadman lifts his glass for a toast. "To the chiral network, perhaps? To America."

Sam lowers his chin at that, smothering a grimace. He doesn't say anything, but they clink their glasses together. He can't really taste the wine either, though it goes down easier than Timefall Porter. No bubbles.

Sam thinks this might be a date. Or something a lot like it. What the _fuck_.

"Sam," Deadman says, after taking a sip and setting his glass down. "Perhaps we should talk about what we're on about, here. What is it that we're… after."

Sam looks away with a wince and takes another drink. Half of the glass is already gone, and it feels like his skin is crawling again, and this time it's not even because of the suggestion of touch – there's almost a metre of space between them, and a table, and all the food. No risk of being touched – but the way Deadman is looking at him...

"Is it intimacy?" Deadman asks, looking at him, tilting his head. "I understand, of course – especially with your condition –"

Sam lets out a sharp sigh at that, and Deadman stops there, stumbling to an awkward halt. It's a moment before the guy speaks again. "For my own part, I haven't known much of it, either. I told you – about my body? 70% harvested from cadavers. It has not made me very eligible, as far as such things go. No permanent partners, no friends… nothing, before you."

That just makes it _worse_ , doesn't it?

"Things have been different since you came along. You don't treat me like many others do – we are friends, aren't we, Sam? And perhaps more?" Deadman asks, almost hopefully. "I have enjoyed it, hoped for _more,_ even, but I didn't imagine that you would –"

Sam can't _take_ this. "Do you want to fuck me?" he blurts out, frustrated and uncomfortable.

Deadman cuts off with a sharp inhale, which then turns into him to coughing like he's drank something down the wrong pipe. Sam gives him an uneasy glance and then nudges the napkin over to his side – it takes a moment for Deadman manage to stop coughing and ask, still wheezing, "I'm _sorry_?"

"S'not a hard question," Sam says and grimaces. "Do you wanna fuck me?"

Deadman opens his mouth silently, gaping at him. "I – yes?" he says, and his whole face goes red. "But ideally that's not –"

Sam looks down, shaking his head. "Then let's just do _that_. And not – not this." It would be easier. Harder, too, but at least something he knows how he deals with. He has no idea how he will react if Deadman starts going on about feelings at him. He'll might fling himself at the storm, just to save himself from it. Hell, he already feels the urge.

" _Sam_ ," Deadman says, sounding stricken for some reason.

Sam looks away, shifting in his seat, feeling almost naked despite being still mostly clothed. Deadman's seen him worse.

Deadman shakes his head. "I-Is that something you can even – do?"

Sam shrugs tersely. It's not something he's ever tried. It also isn't something he's really wanted… before now. And he definitely wants it more than he wants to continue this damn conversation.

Deadman wipes at his mouth clumsily with the napkin and then pushes his wine glass away. "At least tell me what you are and aren't comfortable with," he says.

Sam looks at the floor, at the other chair, at the table, everywhere, but not at Deadman. "I'm fine with – clothing. In between," he says. "It – it wasn't bad, before." Except, it kind of was, the blanket was scratchy and weird. He would've almost rather feel Deadman's gloves on him – they were leather, seemed supple and less dry and awful. It could be tolerable… maybe. Fuck if he knows.

The scientist is quiet for a moment, watching him. "I suppose there's nothing to it but try," he says then. "If you're sure. But Sam, for me to – to _fuck you_ –" he trails off, flustered.

Sam swallows, his whole body quivering at the thought. He can feel the skin of his back growing sweaty against his shirt, just at the thought of it. Could be sweat of terror. Doesn't feel like it, though. Shit.

Deadman obviously sees this reaction, because the noise he makes is interested. "Yes," he decides and sets the napkin down with purpose and finality. "Nothing to it but try."

He stands up, and Sam almost flinches, bowing his head. Then there's a hand held out for him, clad in a black glove, only a sliver of skin visible at the wrist, and it's – it's too close, too much, too inviting, too fucking _everything_.

Sam's fingers shake visibly as he lifts his hand and takes it. Deadman's fingers gripping his are wider, shorter, strong – and very much _fingers_. It's a touch through leather, but it's still a _touch_. And it feels like it's sapping power from Sam, leaving him numb all the way to the shoulder, drained dry, like Deadman's gloved fingers alone are enough to siphon his blood away.

Deadman tugs, just a little, more a request than attempt to actually pull him up, and Sam stumbles awkwardly to his feet.

"There's a bedroom," Deadman says, his voice pitching low and hot again. "Come on."

 _Fuck_ , Sam thinks, and follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, come ooon...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And back to the smut

It's _awkward_. Everything about it is awkward, and Sam doesn't know what to do with himself, never mind with Deadman standing over him. He doesn't know where to look, what to do with his hands, his legs, with his everything, really, with his _anything_.

Deadman takes off his coat, hanging it on a hook by the door, taking a moment to smooth out wrinkles from the fabric. Then he takes off his tie, which makes Sam shift uneasily – after that, removing any more clothes would start revealing skin, and he's not sure about that. Just having his own arms bared feels like too much skin revealed, in this space.

The bedroom is small, crowded, nothing like the Bridges private rooms. There's barely space for the double bed that sits in the middle, and just enough space to move around it – it makes everything that much _closer._ The walls are dark wood, and the bed sheets are deep red, fuzzy under Sam's bare palms, and he wishes he too had gloves to block the distracting sensation out. The bedside lamp is barely enough to light the room, and so the physical feelings is all Sam can think about.

Deadman's hands lift to his dress shirt collar, and Sam looks sharply away – but he doesn't open it, it's the opposite. The man checks that the top button is done and then moves to check his shirt cuffs, straightening them – making sure they are fastened. From the corner of his eye Sam can see the sliver of skin, pale, a hint of bluish vein, and what might be a colourless scar, running between the tendons of the wrist.

Deadman is watching him, and Sam leans back away from it, uneasy.

"This works well enough for me too," the man comments. "I have extensive surgery scarring, as you might have guessed from…" he notions to his forehead. "And I know I'm no lovely sight to behold."

Sam shifts at that, uncomfortable. "I don't care," he says, not sure why he needs to say it, but feeling like he has to. "About scarring. It's just –"

"I suppose you don't," Deadman agrees. "Your aphenphosmphobia makes it unpleasant, I understand. Can you tell me, how does it feel for you to be touched?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," Sam says, clenching his teeth. "'Specially not now."

"I would like to know what it does to you, if I accidentally engage in skin to skin contact. If there is psychosomatic pain, and if it applies to intimate regions…"

Sam breathes in and out and doesn't answer.

Deadman lowers his gloved hands. "I don't want to hurt you, Sam, not unintentionally."

Sam glances up at that. "But you do _intentionally_?" he asks warily.

"If it's both of our intention," Deadman agrees plainly. "Otherwise, no."

The hell does that even mean? Deadman doesn't elaborate and doesn't move or say anything either – he just looks at Sam until Sam has to look away, and then the guy just _waits_.

"It's – yeah," Sam answers finally. "It burns. Sometimes it's like a sunburn or a rash, sometimes like a chemical burn. Irritates me afterwards."

Deadman hums. "And what do you think it does to the other person?"

Sam flinches at that and almost backs away to the bed, like putting the distance between them would help. "Don't," he says.

"You're describing it like a chemical reaction," Deadman muses. "And in most chemical reactions, two interacting agents are both affected. So, do you think touching you would affect me adversely?"

Sam pulls his legs up on the bed, between them, and leans back. His feet are bare, and he wishes he'd kept his socks on, no matter how filthy they were. Should've had a shower. Anything.

"I see," Deadman says, thoughtful. "I will keep my gloves on, then."

Sam glaces up at him warily and then releases a relieved breath, when the man doesn't press for more.

"If you become too uncomfortable with anything, just tell me," Deadman says.

Though it's all the warning the man gives, he's slow enough about reaching forward that Sam could've moved away if he wanted to. He doesn't, leaving back in his hands, watching closely at Deadman touches his left knee on the outside, just with the tips of his gloved fingers, barely hard enough to be felt through Sam's trousers.

Sam still feels it, spreading from the connection point, like Deadman's a source of heat, radiating warmth.

Then Deadman pushes his hand further against the cloth, slowly pressing his palm down, and Sam can feel it properly, the shape of the palm and the grip of the fingers, how easy the leather slides over the stiff fabric.

Deadman's thumb goes to hook around the left kneecap, so that he's gripping Sam's leg there. Watching him closely, the scientist moves his hand and Sam's knee with it, tugging lightly enough that Sam could keep his leg still, could fight it. He doesn't. Deadman moves his knee to the side, and Sam swallows – the man is slowly, so carefully, spreading his legs apart. On with the program, then.

Except, no, apparently not. Satisfied with the knowledge that Sam won't fight his manhandling, Deadman doesn't move to push his right leg aside too, no. Instead he takes the left leg in both hands, fingers dipping under the calf and gripping, enclosing Sam's calf in a band of heat, and then he lifts it. Sam's bare foot comes off the bed, and then – 

Sam's elbows buckle threateningly, and he draws a sharp breath as Deadman's gloved hand grips him under the ankle, sliding down – and then he feels the leather, warm and smooth on bare skin, inching slowly lower to cradle the foot.

"Sam," Deadman says as he holds his breath. "You need to tell me."

"It's not –" Sam starts and stops with a grimace. It's not _terrible._ It's – it's something. Weird and too close, and feeling Deadman's thumb just between the Achilles tendon and the sharp jut of an ankle bone, it almost feels too much, like it's dangerous. His whole foot is tingling, but he's felt worse.

Deadman frowns, not satisfied. "Is it bad?"

"No," Sam answers, almost honest.

"Is it _good_?"

Sam hesitates, staring at his foot in Deadman's hands. It looks red and bruised – his boots are getting worn out and the cold outside has left his toes almost white. He thinks his feet are cold – the one not being handled definitely feels cold. The one in Deadman's hand... "I don't – I don't know."

Deadman looks down and then puts his other hand on Sam's foot too, fingers sliding under while his thumbs rub over the tendons on top, and – and Sam's foot is in his hands, his bare foot is resting in Deadman's gloved hands.

Deadman massages the foot slowly and with increasing pressure, until Sam is squirming a little, uncertain. He can feel it all the way up to the knee, and his toes curl and flex without his say so. "Move back, Sam," Deadman tells him and Sam wiggles back, half relieved and half disappointed.

Then Deadman sits on the bed, takes his so far untouched right leg, and unceremoniously lifts Sam's foot into his lap.

Sam's elbows shake, and he almost collapses back on the bed.

Deadman's warm to the point of being hot, and he's just… soft, all over – it's like resting his foot in a nest of heated pillows. Sam's toes curl again, uncertain, as Deadman closes his gloved hands over the foot to repeat the treatment Sam's left foot got, and – Sam suddenly feels cold, all over, everywhere Deadman's not touching, and he feels the urge of trying to work his left foot back and closer Deadman's warmth. It still feels like burning, but – it's not bad. Better than not bad.

He thinks he could handle more of it, he could _want_ more of it.

Deadman looks up as Sam lets loose a slow sigh. "Good?" he asks, still rubbing the foot, and Sam nods, embarrassed. Deadman's eyes widen a little at that. "It is? Really?"

Sam can feel himself heat up as he nods again, and then he lets himself collapse onto the bed, so that he can more easily avoid looking at the man. Deadman makes a noise at that – what _kind_ of noise it is, Sam can't tell, but Deadman follows it by lifting Sam's other foot in his lap too, so Sam assumes it's a good one. But Sam's too distracted by the fact that his toes are now pressed against Deadman's belly, where it's warm, and soft, and _nice_ …

Deadman's hands roam over his feet for a while, and Sam loses himself in the mixed sensation of it, humming uncertainly. It takes him a moment to realise that Deadman's basically fondling his feet – and that he's pretty sure that's the man's dick he's feeling against his heel.

Sam swallows, covering his eyes with his arm. "Don't tell me you have a foot fetish."

Deadman snorts at that, sounding a little embarrassed himself. "You have no idea how vocal you are, do you, Sam?" he asks and Sam can feel his pulse skip a beat. "And would it be so bad if I did? Your feet are a marvel – also they've walked across most of the continent. I think they deserve appreciation."

Sam groans, covering his face with both arms now. Damnit. "Just – shut up."

Deadman chuckles at that, and after one last, fond, stroke over them, he sets Sam's feet down – and now he does spread Sam's legs, moving slowly between them. The bed dips under his weight, and Sam swallows – Deadman's sitting on his knees between his spread legs now, watching him.

"Well then," the scientist murmurs, staring at him keenly. "Let's see what else you like."

Sam swallows and does nothing at all to stop him, just releasing a breath and leaning his head back as Deadman puts his hands on his knees again. He thinks he's getting used to it now, the weight of Deadman's hands on his legs, on his thighs. He's not sure if he _likes_ it, yet, but his body definitely reacts to it. Sam's feet are still tingling from the treatment they got, and it's radiating through and up his legs, making everything oversensitive and shaky. He can track each of Deadman's fingers on him, and the way they follow the lines of his leg muscles is making him quiver, unsure whether to tense or not.

"Ngh," escapes from Sam's mouth when the man's thumbs press on the inseam of his trousers, and his hands give a gentle, but purposeful, squeeze.

"You really – have quite well-formed legs, Sam," Deadman breathes, appreciative, staring down. "Do you think we could take these off?"

Take what off – take his _trousers_ off?

Sam's breath catches and he looks away, wash of hot and cold coursing through him. That's the point, isn't it? That's the exact point to this, and he's been fully nude around the guy too. And he had dared Deadman to fuck him, which isn't really something that is possible unless he _does_ take his clothes off. And yet – fuck.

It would've been easier to do it, if Deadman hadn't decided to be nice and gentle first. Just jump right into it, get it done and over with, think about it later. Now it's hard – now it's a deliberate, conscious choice he has to make, and then live with. And Sam can't seem to find his voice enough to actually make it.

"Or I could just…"

Sam looks sharply down at what Deadman's doing and then lets out a strangled gasp as the man's hands push into the space between his legs along Sam's inner thighs, pushing them apart further all the while striking his fingers along Sam's crotch. It's such a fucking _forward_ motion that it floors Sam completely – then Deadman's hands are pushing his legs not just apart, but _up_ , up and out of the way.

"Fuck," Sam breathes and lets Deadman jostle him, lets the man tilt his hips off the mattress. He's not sure what the guy is doing, folding him in half, displaying him, _what_ – not until Deadman shuffles forward on his knees and right into the space he'd made for himself.

And fuck, having his feet in the guy's lap has nothing on having his _ass_ in his lap.

Deadman tugs at his legs, arranging Sam's knees on each side of him, while Sam just stares at him, speechless and breathless, his hips and waist tilted at an awkward angle while his shoulders sit on the mattress. Sam's legs lie limp for a moment at each side of Deadman, before man tugs at them, spreading them, and crossing Sam's ankles behind his own ass, angling Sam's nether regions _just so_ that Sam can feel his dick through their clothing, pressing against him right there.

Sam's breath escapes him in an incredulous rush, while Deadman palms his waist, satisfied. "No skin contact," he comments, his breathing a little heavier. "How is it, Sam?"

Sam just stares at him, shaken.

"Good? Bad?" Deadman asks, his arm trailing down from Sam's hip towards his crotch.

"Yeah," Sam breathes and looks down.

Deadman's thumb feels around the seam of his trousers, feeling for his dick which is very fast becoming very invested into the proceedings. In the meanwhile, his hips jut a little against Sam's ass, and he can feel, the guy is definitely into this, whatever this is. It's all a little too much for Sam, he can't fucking keep up with this, but –

"Shit," he hisses, as Deadman susses out the shape of him through his clothing and gives him a slow, firm rub. It's – it's not good, it's not very nice – his dick is at an awkward fucking angle, and the seam is digging into the side of it, just on the wrong side of painful, and –

Shifting a little, Sam puts an elbow behind himself and reaches down, down and right into his pants, to right his trapped dick so that it's pointing upwards rather than down, so that it's not being strangled by his clothes. Sam releases a relieved sigh and crashes back down while Deadman stops and stares at him.

" _Sam_ ," he breathes.

Sam looks away and coughs, shifting his knee a little. "Go on," he says, rough.

It takes Deadman a moment to actually move, but move he does, thrusting his hips into the space between Sam's legs, hesitant at first, but growing more confident, more forceful. It's _awkward_ and not terribly pleasant – even with the adjustment, Sam's trapped in his clothes and it's so tight and uncomfortable, cloth painfully digging in the more Deadman moves until it _hurts_ enough to overcome the lingering psychosomatic burn of being so close to someone.

Deadman's face gains a red sheen of sweat, and he begins panting, messy and strained, as he ruts against Sam, and it can't be good for him either. It can't be. It's fucking _awful._

And yet, Sam can't bring himself to tell him to stop – can't stop his hips from moving into it, into those heady sparks and jolts of _something_ his body has a hard time figuring out, but wants. He bites his lip, twists the bedspreads in his hands and tries to, to – something, he's not sure what, but it feels like if he just found the right angle –

Deadman grunts in a very real discomfort, and his movements cease, and for a moment they're just – there, panting for a frustrated breath. Deadman wipes his gloved hand over his sweaty brow, and Sam strains against him, searching for something he can't reach, and it's – it's annoying.

"I think this," Deadman pants, "is not the position for us."

Sam lets his body fall loose, blowing out a breath. Then he pushes himself up, first to his elbows, then to his arms, tilting his hips slightly to Deadman's. It's – yeah. It's not good enough. "Fuck," he breathes, irritated with himself. His body wants to pretty much hump the man, and he knows it will just be more awkward painful grinding. It's not _working_.

"Sam," Deadman says, his hands resting on Sam's hips, two, three layers of cloth in between, counting Sam's underwear. "Perhaps we should simply… take care of ourselves."

"What, sit here and jerk ourselves off?" Sam demands, irritated.

Deadman pushes his gloved hand through his hair. "It might be less – strenuous."

Sam frowns at him, and then takes another, closer look. Deadman looks tired. Yeah, it makes sense, the guy isn't exactly used to physical activity, and judging by the way he's rubbing at his back, the position is not agreeing with him at all. As much as Sam wants – _something_ here, he doesn't actually want Deadman to throw his back out for him.

But fuck, Sam _wants_. How was this so easy before when it's so fucking impossible now? Because last time he was naked?

Sam looks down, trying to gather the wits and courage to do something about their situation, when Deadman sighs and leans back. "No, I suppose not, that would rather defeat the purpose. Well, it's no use," he says, and Sam's stomach sinks. "This will not do at all."

"Deadman," Sam says, just short of plaintive, as the man backs away a little, giving his knee a parting pat before untangling Sam's legs from around himself.

Sam lays there, feeling oddly abandoned and _wholly_ disappointed, while Deadman sits back and adjusts his collar with a sigh, tugging at the edge with a finger hooked in. "Well then," he says, and as Sam expects him to get up and just fucking _leave_ , he shuffles more fully onto the bed, sitting back on it, against the pillows. "Come here, Sam."

It takes a moment for Sam to actually pick up on what he means. Deadman even goes so far as to pat his own thigh, like calling for a pet, and why _that_ makes Sam's blood suddenly surge in his ears he has no damn idea, but fuck – it does. The man sits there, looking ruffled and patient, and also _impatient_.

"You are physically much more fit," Deadman says, ruefully factual. "I'm quite sure you will have no issues adopting the more physically strenuous role."

Sam is going to _implode_. "Um," he says, even while quickly sitting up, his heart hammering heavier. Deadman holds out his hand, and feeling a bit like he's been drugged, Sam takes it, moving to stand on his knees before shuffling closer, closer – and into the man's lap.

And that's – yeah.

Deadman leans back, shifting into a more comfortable position, as Sam slowly lets his weight down, and – yeah. He can feel Deadman, pressing against him through the cloth, and it's still frustrating, and his clothes are still too fucking tight, but, oh yeah, this is – yeah.

"Move as you will, Sam," Deadman says, his voice pitching lower, all but rumbling, as he lays both hands on Sam's hips, fingers flexing, just short of groping. They _burn,_ it's like he's holding two bits of hot metal to Sam's hips, and it's...

Utterly speechless, Sam shifts his weight, not entirely sure what to do, but – it's not like there are enough options available in this position for even him to get it wrong. Wincing a little and awkwardly trying not to meet Deadman's eyes, Sam leans his shoulders back and then just sort of… _gyrates_ down.

It's - fuck. Almost too much. The shift of fabric where his inner thighs rub on Deadman, clothing snagging on clothing. The tightening of the fabric over his groin, over his ass - how the trousers bunch up behind his knees, how the legs ride up on his ankles… and fuck, Deadman's _body heat..._

"Ahh," Deadman sighs, leaning his head back, and it shudders like hot hail through Sam, making his skin prickle again. "Yes, much better."

Fuck, it really is. Sam swallows and then, slowly, leans back to give himself a little leverage – and then does it again, with little more aim this time. And then again. And again. And _again_ until he's grinding against the guy just so that his dick gets the friction it needs without fucking _strangling_ to death, and Deadman keeps on making those satisfied, deep sighs that seems to stoke some unseen embers, leaving Sam burning.

"That's it, that's it," Deadman breathes, rubbing his gloved hands over Sam's thighs and hips, leaving these smears of heat, like stains, like handprints - Sam can feel his hands _everywhere,_ and they _burn_. "Just like that, Sam, you're doing wonderfully, that's so good…"

Sam wants to tell him to shut up, but he can't even fucking _breathe,_ and the only sound he can seem to make are grunts and moans, which would've been _humiliating_ if Deadman wasn't staring at him like he wanted to fucking eat him. All of it's so weird, and still awkward and _so damn good_ …

Deadman's hands drift around his hips to grip his ass, and Sam has a moment of near lucidity where he thinks, _his dick in my ass is going to feel amazing_ , and then next moment his hips are stuttering and he has to bite his lip to keep from fucking _keening_ as something gives, and he's making a mess in his trousers.

Deadman groans breathlessly, "Oh, that's _beautiful_ ," before pulling Sam's hips closer and giving a couple of rather weak thrusts against him, before following. Sam sags, panting and trying to figure out what the fuck, and Deadman gives his ass another generous squeeze. "Some – room for improvement, certainly," the scientist pants. "But I think we're on the right track."

Understatement of the whole fucking apocalypse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I list the kinks at the start of the chapter or is enough that they're already tagged...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk of suicide, miscarriage, description of scars

There isn't time to think about it, one way or the other. The supercell swallows them both up, and they're probably just lucky they managed to get cleaned up enough before it did – not that Sam had enough time to appreciate _that_ , either. The fucking ghosts of World War 2 keep him kind of busy. It's like the last time, though at least this time he knows what to expect – instead of flailing around in confusion, trying to figure it out all the while not being killed. No, this time he just gets Lou, goes after the soldier asshole who's after her, and gets the fucking thing _done._

And he has all the more reason to get it done faster too, because Deadman is there with him, witnessing the whole thing, theorising about it all the while, panicking in the background. And Deadman, whatever he is to Sam now and whatever this thing between them is and means… Deadman is no combatant, he makes that pretty clear. One stray soldier BT, and…

Damn if the whole thing isn't the most confusing shit ever – like he doesn't have enough crap to try and figure out, now there's this damn war Beach, and… Yeah, Sam very resolutely doesn't think about anything – he just concentrates on getting them out of there, _fast_.

He wakes up in the bed of a Bridges private room, head aching and still spinning with strange, amber-tinted visions… so, it must've worked. Deadman is there too, standing by the display case with his back to the bed. The sight of him makes all strength leave Sam, and he heaves out a sigh, closing his eyes.

"Sam! Oh, thank god – you've been out of it for the better part of the day," the man says, turning away from the stillmother terminal while Sam struggles into full, confused wakefulness. "Slept like the dead too."

Sam grunts and looks at his right hand, expecting to need to unhook himself from the bed rail. He's not latched in, though, the handcuff lies loose on the bed – and he's still in a full suit. And still filthy with tar and blood, to boot. "I haven't been cleaned up?" he mutters, more to himself than to Deadman.

"I thought it best we simply let you rest and recover at your own pace," Deadman says, almost wringing his hands as he obviously hesitates before and coming closer. "You did take something of a beating back there. How are you feeling?"

Sam blinks at him blearily and then spots the terminal – and the pod in it. "Lou," he says and quickly gets up. The pod, unlike him, has been cleaned, and Lou is peacefully floating about in the amniotic fluids inside, looking none the worse for wear. "Lou," Sam murmurs, as the relief washes over him. _Oh thank fuck_ …

Deadman watches him, somewhat nervous. "She seems to be doing fine – though she did get close to autotoxemia, we managed to return her to her mother's womb in time, so to speak," he says, watching. "She is back to the hundred percent, as far as I can tell – ready for you to take her out, of course."

Lou doesn't respond to Sam though, even turns to face away from him when he takes the pod in hand. "She doesn't remember me," Sam says, slow. "Does she?" She hadn't reacted all that well when he'd hooked her in, either.

Deadman looks down and sighs. "It seems not," he agrees and leans in a little to look. Lou reacts to him more than she does to Sam, leaning towards him. Deadman smiles. "Seems as though I've become a more familiar face. But little Lou was quick to warm up to you before, was she not? Just do what you did before, and I'm sure she will be right with you in no time at all."

Sam hesitates for a moment, considering her in her pod, before attaching her back to the terminal. Right… well, at least she's alright now, and not able to die. He can take her forgetting him, if it means she's alright and he can still keep her… even if it's only for a little bit longer. At least that much he knows.

The rest…

"Perhaps a shower, Sam? You are still covered in chiralium, you should clean that off," Deadman suggests and then clears his throat, motioning around them. "Also I took care of your room privacy – though you can, and likely will, still receive calls here, they will be audio only, unless you or I decide otherwise – and you can decline calls now."

Sam swallows, giving him a sideways look, feeling his cheeks heat up.

Deadman looks back and then goes red about the ears. "That – didn't mean to come out as a _suggestion_ ," he says, flustered. "Or – or innuendo of any kind. I only mean – the Die-Hardman situation is no longer a concern here, either – or, indeed, in any facility you have a private room in. They are now truly...private."

"Right," Sam answers, his turn to be embarrassed. He glances at Lou, but she looks fine now, settling down for a nap, so… a little awkward, he turns and heads for the shower. He _is_ filthy, after all.

"I feel as though I should apologize," Deadman says, while Sam starts getting out of his dirty suit. "For not realising the – seriousness of your bond with little Lou here. Lou was the name you were going to give to your son, wasn't it?"

Sam stills in the middle of unzipping the suit.

"I'm sorry, I didn't really look that closely to your files," Deadman admits. "I've only been part of Bridges less than three years, myself. Bridges One had already set out by the time I joined, and things from before that, well… they held little importance to me. So, while I glanced over your files from back when you were part of Bridges, ten years ago, I didn't really… pay attention, then. Didn't seem relevant."

"It's not relevant _now_ either," Sam snaps, glaring at the floor. It's not, it's _not_.

"I think it is," Deadman says, and Sam can hear him turn. "Not only have you named your BB after your own unborn child, but Lucy Strand was the last person you've been intimate with, wasn't she?"

Sam snarls, wrenching the suit open and pushing it down his shoulders. "Doesn't matter," he says. "Was years ago."

"Yes, it was. But you can't claim it doesn't still affect you," Deadman says. "According to her files on you, you two were working on your aphenphosmphobia. And, going by your history since… her death made it worse."

Sam gets out of the suit, gritting his teeth and quickly pulling his shirt over his head. He's tempted to turn around and throw it at Deadman to shut him up, but he doesn't – he shoves it into the cleaner, to be scrubbed down and sterilised, shoving his trousers right in after.

"Sam," Deadman says, worried. "Please. I want to help you –"

"Yeah, well, so did she – and look where the fuck it got her," Sam snaps, waving a hand at the shower to open the door. "So maybe you should help yourself to the fucking _door_." He gets in the shower before Deadman can answer and turns the water on, hoping to drown out the man's voice.

No such luck – one heat and one speed only. And Deadman doesn't leave either, of course he fucking doesn't – he steps closer to the shower instead. "Sam," he says, soft and painfully concerned, and Sam tilts his head to the shower, wishing it was louder. Deadman doesn't even have to raise his voice, and Sam can hear him. "I… I told you about my body. 70% of it comes from the dead, yes? It wasn't… the full truth."

He doesn't continue, and Sam tries to ignore the silence, ignore the shadow Deadman casts on the shower wall, ignore everything. But then there's movement just in the corner of his eye – Deadman's hand, rising and falling. He's taking his suit jacket off.

Sam seriously considers closing his eyes and banging his forehead against the shower wall until he passes out, it would be preferable to whatever this is. But curiosity wins over, and he glances over his shoulder, just barely enough to see Deadman loosening his tie and easing it over his head. He's so damn meticulous about it too – unbuttoning his shirt cuffs before tugging the shirt tails from under his belt, and only then opening the buttons, one by one.

The guy is pale – and marked all over by pale pink scars. The biggest is right in the middle of his chest, running down from collar to under his sternum – his ribcage had been opened. There are others, lines and crisscrossing marks all over his gut – but also on his arms, even on his wrists. Deadman takes over his gloves, and there's marks even _there_ , on his palm and on the back of the hand.

Deadman holds his hands to his sides, displaying himself. "Quite the sight, isn't it?" he asks, glancing down. "And trust me, there's more below the belt. I have almost no organs that are really my own, and quite a bit of my muscles are transplants as well. A few bones, quite a deal of tendons…"

Sam hesitates, turning his eyes ahead, eyeing the shower wall, not sure if to look or not. Deadman obviously wants him to – and it sounds like there's a point to it, so… in spite of himself, he turns around.

Deadman meets his eyes and drops his hands. "I'm something of a Frankenstein's monster," he says. "Artificial. Grown in a lab from pluripotent stem cells. Not a perfect process, as you see – I suffered organ failure after organ failure, and the defective ones had to be replaced, like parts in a poorly manufactured engine. Even my voice isn't my own – the only organ I can truly call my own is my brain, my mind."

Sam leans his hand on the glass, frowning.

"I'm a soulless meat puppet," Deadman says. "No Ka. A dead man."

Sam's fingers curl into a fist.

Deadman swallows and looks away from him. "And it is quite well known in the circles I work in, in the morgue and later at Bridges – so, you can imagine that people have never been terribly eager to get close to me. Or touch me. You said you didn't mind scars, but…"

"I don't," Sam mutters, probably too quiet for the guy to hear.

"I would understand why you, too, might find this sight repulsive," Deadman murmurs, running a scarred hand over scarred chest. "Not only am I stitched together from scar tissue, but my digestive system works poorly, and I suffer from a number of medical conditions. Hence the weight and such. Still…" his voice goes wistful enough to sound almost tearful. "I would like for you to one day touch me. I think that… that would be…"

Sam stares at him hard, his hand flexing restlessly, opening and closing.

Deadman clears his throat and quickly wipes his eyes. "So," he says. "Just so you understand, I didn't bring the matter up only to be cruel."

Sam leans in a little and rests his forehead against the cool glass, breathing deep enough against it to make it fog. Then he closes his eyes, drawing another breath. "You know about Lucy," he says.

It takes a moment before Deadman speaks. "I read about her, yes."

"You know how she died?"

"It was a voidout," Deadman says slowly. "You tried to get to her, but didn't make it in time – and were thus the only survivor. It was assumed that she killed herself."

Sam sighs and shakes his head. "Takes around 48 hours before body turns into a BT," he says. "Wasn't her – it was our kid. Miscarriage, I think, or… worse. She hid it from me, I don't know why – she got DOOMS nightmares from the pregnancy. Maybe she thought Lou wasn't far enough along to have a Beach. She hid it, either way, and our baby became a BT."

Deadman says nothing and Sam points to his thigh, to three tiny handprints. "Lou left these on me… before I repatriated."

It explains fuck all, of course – it explains fuck all to him. After that day, though… before, it was always _unpleasant_ to be touched, he avoided it enough for it to fuck up his life, his work, his relationships. Afterwards it physically _hurt_ – those first few years, it actually made him physically _sick_. A single brush of a stranger's hand, and he'd be doubled over, throwing up – not tar, maybe, but damn if it didn't feel like it. Just thinking about it now makes him feel a little sick – thinking how he put that baby inside her, he was so excited, looked forward to it so much, and what became of it –

There's a shadow on his face, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut tighter for a moment before looking. Deadman is on the other side of the glass, pressing his forehead against his. He's close enough to make Sam's skin prickle and a shudder run through him... but not close enough to hurt.

"Knowing that, the bond you've forged with _our_ little Lou is all the more remarkable," Deadman says quietly. "As is _this_."

Sam shudders, and Deadman puts a hand on his, with only the glass in between. It's not even half a centimetre thick, and he can feel Deadman's warmth transferring through it – the guy runs hot, maybe because of fucked up biology, maybe not, whatever. It's enough that Sam can feel it – against the centre of his palm, the glass grows warmer.

"I," Sam murmurs, looking away from Deadman, over to the stillmother terminal, to Lou's pod. It's dark now, she's asleep – safe and sound back where she belongs. "I don't know why I named her Lou, seems fucked up now."

"Sometimes these things simply refuse to adhere to logic," Deadman muses, he too glancing at her. "It's a fine name, and it suits her. A fine tribute to an innocent child that never was."

Sam's shoulders sag at that a little, and he squeezes his eyes shut again, shaking his head against the glass. Fuck, all of this feels so _messy_ inside his head. Like his thoughts are smeared in tar, all black and tacky. And how embarrassing is this anyway, two grown men pawing at a fucking shower door, geez.

"I… do want to touch you," Sam admits, with some difficulty. "I want to… I want it to not be _hard_."

"Oh, Sam." Deadman murmurs, sounding fond and wretched, all at once. "I want that too. Almost more than anything else, right now."

Sam bangs his forehead against the glass lightly in frustration. He tries to imagine it, opening the door, reaching out to touch the guy – and he just… he can't. Just picturing it makes his stomach roil a little, makes sharp shivers run up and down his spine, like razor blades.

Deadman's hand trails down the glass. "Would you permit me an experiment? Or rather, would you do something for me, Sam?"

"What?"

"I could touch your bare hand with my gloves on, and you experienced only minimal discomfort," Deadman says and looks at him, almost imploringly. "Would you try the same?"

Sam frowns. "Wear your gloves?"

"Or any gloves, but I suppose they are the only ones readily available," Deadman muses and glances down at them where he'd dropped them, on the floor. "Would you try?"

Sam looks down at the gloves through the glass and then decides, _fuck it_ and then steps back, detaching from the glass. "Yeah," he says and reaches back to turn the shower off.

It takes a moment before Deadman moves, picking the gloves up from the floor with a slight grunt while Sam opens the shower door, shifting his footing as the automated air dryer blasts him with warm air. It's not enough to dry him completely, but – it keeps him from getting cold, at least, as water trickles down his skin.

Their eyes meet, and Sam looks down, feeling strangely sheepish all of a sudden. Without looking up, he holds out his hand, making a _gimme_ motion, and Deadman holds the gloves over his palm and drops them, careful not to make skin contact.

The gloves are both a little too big and a little too small for Sam – too loose around the palm and wrist, too short in length. Doesn't matter, though – the leather is thick enough to numb his sense of touch and give him that distance. The shower door was only a few millimetres thick, and Sam had thought before that if Deadman touched him with his gloves on, it would _maybe_ be fine, so…

Sam spreads out his fingers, testing the limitations of the gloves, and then looks at Deadman, who is almost holding his breath.

"At your own pace, Sam," Deadman says, hushed, moving his hands like he doesn't know what to do with them, how to hold them, before holding them down. "Take your time."

"Yeah, uh. I'm just gonna…" Sam says, just as quiet, and reaches out, slowly, stepping closer. His hand hovers over the pale skin of Deadman's chest for a moment, as he tries to push through that final barrier and make contact. He has the gloves, he wouldn't even feel the temperature of the man's skin, or the texture, it would be fine. And man, Deadman's almost all hairless too…

And still, that final centimetre seems like an impossible distance to cross. Like he's pushing against something, like his arm isn't long enough, like there's a physical barrier, even though there isn't, the guy is _just within reach_ –

Sam takes a step forward and bodily forces the contact – his hand lands on the guy's skin almost hard enough to push him back a little, and they both hold their breaths, staring at each other.

"Sam?" Deadman asks, almost soundless.

"It's fine," Sam murmurs, even though his whole hand tingles and he feels suddenly very shaky. The fact that he's _naked_ just makes the tingling that much worse. "It's fine, it's fine – is there, do they – hurt? The scars?"

"Just don't – don't scratch or push too hard on them, and it's fine," Deadman says, and looks down.

There's a lot of Deadman to touch – the guy is not small. Even through the glove he feels soft, and warm, like Sam could dig his fingers in, take a handful, sink into it. His own skin is hard, he knows, there's not a single soft spot left on his body, but Deadman's the complete opposite – he's so _soft_. Sam puts his other hand on Deadman's belly, feeling the strangest mental vertigo – he simultaneously wants to get the hell away… and lean in and plaster himself over the guy. It would feel _terrible_ – and so nice, at the same time.

Deadman is breathing a little heavier now, looking a little overcome with emotion – and fuck, Sam's not sure he can blame him, considering how weak his own knees feel. "I want to hug you, so badly," Deadman murmurs shakily. "But I think that would send you through the roof."

Sam snorts, because it probably would, he'd jump out of his skin and fucking _flee_. But he gets it. Thinking back to the night in the safehouse, their night in the cabin – yeah. He gets it.

But this, this isn't bad. A bit weird, and his skin is crawling a little, but it's not bad. He's not sure what to do now, though. His hands are just – there. On Deadman's skin. What is he supposed to do now?

While Sam is trying to figure out whether to pull back or just stay where he is or _what_ , Deadman slowly lifts his own, ungloved hands, obviously waiting to see if he'd object. Sam waits, swallowing, and watches the guy put his hands over his, so that Sam's hands are briefly trapped against the guy's torso. It's not firm, Sam could pull them away, but it's – it's still his hands, being _trapped_ in the act of _touching_.

In a split second, every hair on Sam's body is standing on end, and he makes a noise, uncomfortable. He's about to pull away, when Deadman takes hold of his hands and lifts them off his skin, which makes Sam shudder but lets him breathe again. Then Deadman is guiding his hands away and then up, up, and to his own face, until Sam's holding the guy's face between his gloved palms. Feeling his eyes widen, Sam's breath catches as he stares at Deadman.

The man's eyes are misting over, and he's leaning into Sam's hands, like it's – like it's _nice_. _Oh_.

"I'm sorry – I just," Deadman chokes out. "I just want to feel it."

"I... think I can do this," Sam says, wiping a thumb over the guy's cheek, wiping away a tear, fascinated at his own ability to do so. "Bit by bit. Doesn't bother me as much anymore. And I want to – I do. _I want to_."

"Glad to hear it," Deadman sighs, sniffling, and turns to press his lips to Sam's gloved palm. "I want it too, so very much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna just gloss or skip over canon events because there's no point rehashing them when they don't change. If there's readers who haven't played/watched Death Stranding and are confused, lemme know and I'll like... find a game play you can check out or something.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Masturbation, anal fingering, etc

With Lou back and the chiral buildup dissipating from the atmosphere, it's back to work for a bit. It's almost appreciated – Sam's head feels like a mess of mixed emotions right now, half-addressed urges, and a break from thinking about Deadman for a while is appreciated. Except of course he _can't_ stop thinking about the guy, but Heartman wants Mama's body delivered to his shelter and his shelter connected to the network, so that's what Sam does.

The whole deal with Heartman is… what it is. Makes for a damn good, if also damn weird distraction for a while, and goddamn if everybody in this apocalypse doesn't have weird bullshit going on with them. Deadman with his thing, Mama and Lockne, which still hurts to think about, now Heartman, who _dies 60 times every day…_

How any of them are still living in this damn world, Sam has no idea. It's not even that they're eking by because they got no choice but to do or die, hell… sometimes it feels like everything, everyone, every messed up person between here and oblivion got twisted around into some kind of caricature form of life. Whatever the hell that means. Amelie's stuck on the Beach, who even knows what Die-Hardman's deal is, Deadman's artificial, Mama's a fucking _ghost_ inhabiting Lockne's body or whatever, now Heartman…?

Sometimes, he's not sure if any of them can be called _alive_. And still, they're kicking around in messed up bodies, fucking _struggling_ to live and somehow succeeding, like the realisation hasn't dawned on any of them that they should give up the race. They're still somehow _viscerally, morbidly_ alive. It's almost disturbing, except it isn't.

And fuck… Sam doesn't want to give up the race anymore, either. It's a wild realisation, that one

Sam leaves Heartman dead on the floor, shaking his head at how all this messed up shit is becoming so damn normal. He heads to the terminal outside, and of course Die-Hardman is there to tell him what to do next, while Sam runs a hand over his face. It had been a long, cold trek from Mountain Knot to Heartman's lab, hauling Mama's corpse, and he's tired – and now there are 3 new places to go to. Geologist, Paleontologist, Evo-Devo Biologist… And no more Knot cities, distribution centres, or even waystations between here and the tar and Edge Knot city.

There wouldn't be any safehouses either. This is as far as anyone's gone, in a long time. Just some porters maybe, after the three scientists had set up shop. What was built after them was trashed by Higgs, and… yeah. It'd be no-man's land from here on out.

And it's probably going to be a long-ass while before he sees Deadman again…

"... but maybe take a break first, Sam. You look tired," Die-Hardman says and glances away, as Heartman pops on the chiralgram.

"Apologies, Sam," the scientist says. "These things sometimes take me by surprise. There is a guest house on the second floor – you can access it by the staircase outside. It's free for you to use for the night – it's a little different form a Bridges private room, I admit, nowhere near as advanced and has no connectivity whatsoever… but hopefully it will be to your liking."

"I'll call you in the morning, and we'll go over your next objectives," Die-Hardman adds and logs out of the call, while Sam runs a hand over his face and Heartman glances away.

"Right," Heartman says. "I suppose it's good night, then – oh, and I left you a little gift, upstairs," the man says and fucking _winks_ at him. "Considering some of your recent… activities, I think you will find it useful."

Sam eyes him suspiciously, while the guy gives him cheeky thumbs up and then logs off. Shaking his head, Sam waves the terminal away and then heads outside, Lou cooing quietly through her pod as he goes.

The wind is dying down a little, but it's still cold as balls, and Sam doesn't waste time heading upstairs. A door pops open as he approaches the area, and there's an arrow chiralgram made by Heartman, pointing the way. Sam follows it before pausing – he can glimpse something around the corner.

Heartman has a fucking hot pool on his rooftop – with chiralgrams pointing the way and _Free to Use_ sign hovering right where he can see it. So, that's the gift, huh? Yeah, Sam is definitely making use of that.

He heads inside to check the guest house out and get rid of his gear. The house is more spacious than Bridges private room, definitely, and nowhere near as impersonal and sterile. It's got the same kind of dark décor as Heartman's rooms downstairs, though the floor isn't padded in the same way. Wall to wall carpeting, couches, fake house plants, walls painted dark red…

King-sized bed with what look like satin sheets, and a black, gold-trimmed box sitting on top with a little note, _For Sam. <3, Heartman._

"The fuck," Sam mutters, easing off his harness while Lou sleepily stretches inside her pod, and then goes to check out the box. Inside it, there's a black flat cardboard packet that reads _Safety is <3_ in golden letters, another bigger cardboard box done in a similar style, _< 3 at Hand,_ and finally a dark bottle which reads _< 3 is Smooth_ in similarly golden lettering. Obviously they're all custom made, as a set.

It takes Sam a moment to realise what the fuck they are.

"Oh, for fuck's _sake_ ," Sam groans and almost throws the whole box into a wall in humiliated disgust. "Fucking hell, man."

He ends up leaving the box on the bed though, turning away in embarrassment and wondering what the fuck Heartman might've seen or how, and – yeah, not fucking going there.

He goes to the jacuzzi instead, taking sleepy Lou with him, and resolutely not thinking about it at all.

* * *

Lou's happily sleeping in her darkened pod, and Sam can't settle. The bed in Heartman's guest house is like a damn cloud – he keeps sinking into it and feeling smothered by it, by all the fabric and cushion that feels like it's trying to swallow him up and suffocate him. There's no position where he doesn't feel like he isn't sinking, and sure, it's warm and nice and feels soft against his skin, but after the rock hard mattresses of Bridges it's a bit much.

… and he can't stop thinking about the box sitting on the bedside table, its golden outline glinting in the darkness enticingly. The damn thing is ludicrous, reminds him of old-timey makeup cases, when people made plastic stuff seem luxurious by _aesthetics,_ when after everything's done it's still just cheap plastic, and…

Fuck, Sam isn't sure how long it's been since he's even _seen_ a box of condoms, never mind using one. And _lube_?

"Shit," Sam mutters, running his hands over his face, tugging at his lower eyelids and groaning. "Come on, Sam, just fucking sleep. Got mountains to climb tomorrow. Sleep, you asshole."

Oh yeah, that's a fun thing to bring up, _asshole_ , with a box of condoms and a bottle of lube on the bedside table, because – yeah. What Heartman intended them for is pretty fucking obvious, never mind fucking _mortifying_. And yet, despite how fucking mortifying it is, Sam can't stop _thinking_ about it now. What it would feel like. What he'd – wanted… back at the cabin.

Feeling Deadman's dick against him, with a couple of layers of cloth in between, sure, but so close.

He'd dared Deadman to fuck him, wanted him to – but who knows if it would ever get to that stage. Would be so much easier if Deadman was just a bit meaner and less careful and just went with it. Then they'd know, Sam would know, and it wouldn't linger in his head, the half-imagined sensation. He'd know what it would be like, how much it would hurt, how much it would _burn_.

How wrecked it would leave him, feeling Deadman's dick, not just touching him, but _invading_ him.

Sam swallows, his heart pounding, his body utterly still and yet feeling like he's trembling. The bed seems to be smothering him even more, even the fucking _hair_ on his skin feel trapped. Trapped, and increasingly hot. Sam can almost feel it, Deadman, touching him. His skin is crawling at the idea alone, and yet he can feel himself plumping up, can feel his asshole clench at the ghost sensation.

He'd be useless, probably. Completely fucking paralysed, his body would just seize up, and he'd just lie there, helpless, probably barely able to even breathe. He'd might try to fight it, try and get away from it, but he wouldn't be able to touch Deadman enough to stop him, and the guy would just force his way in, slow and relentless – it would be _agonizing,_ and Sam can just imagine his own reaction, helpless and panicking…

Except no, Deadman wouldn't do that. The guy's too good. No, he'd make Sam do it. Sit down and lean back and then just tell Sam to do it for him, and Sam would have to force himself down on the dick, and that would be _worse_ and better and –

Sam glares at the dark ceiling, his dick hard enough to tent the fucking blankets now, his whole body hot and _itching_ , his breathing a little harder already. "Fuck," he mutters and glances at the bedside table. Heartman had left him a fucking hand towel there, too.

Sam looks back at the ceiling and then down at his stupid fucking dick, as seen through the blanket pressing down on it. Then he sighs. There's two options here – a cold shower or actually making use of what's been made available. Heartman said there was no connectivity, which… might be trustworthy, might not. But any guy who trusts him enough to just _die_ in his presence…

Fuck it, Sam thinks. He glances quickly at Lou to make sure her pod's dark and then throws his blankets off, shuddering a little at the cooler air before shimmying out of his underwear. His dick bounces free fucking _eagerly_ and Sam grabs it in hand, giving it a half annoyed squeeze, to put some kind of breaks to it's enthusiasm. Doesn't really work, though, all it does it make him harder, sending a jolt of sensation through him, which washes up his body and then down and then sinks into his asshole, which he's suddenly hyperaware of.

Giving into the inevitable with a full-bodied shiver, Sam reaches for the box and the towel, sitting up to give the assorted goodies a closer inspection.

 _Safety is <3_ is a box of condoms, the bottle is lube obviously, but the bigger box he's not so sure about, not until he opens it and finds it a box of black rubber-like resin gloves. Of course. Heartman really thought of everything, didn't he – with these, Sam and Deadman might actually be able to…

Sam bows his head, shuddering at the thought. _Fuck_.

Yeah, he gotta try them on now, he really has to.

Sam tugs out a pair of gloves, testing their stretch before easing them on. They're smooth but have just enough grip to feel almost like skin, and they warm through pretty quickly – Sam's not so sure about the colour at first, black is… not exactly sensual, but then, since they're so obviously _there_ and not even a bit see-through… it's not like it's possible to miss that they're _there_.

Feeling a bit of a suspicion, Sam takes out a condom wrapper and tears it open – and sure enough, it's black too. "Jesus," he murmurs, weirdly impressed with Heartman.

It's been long enough that he fumbles a bit, rolling the thing on – long enough that he's forgotten what it feels like, to have that slight squeeze around his dick… but despite stretching to accommodate and fitting like a glove, the transparency doesn't change. The condom stays solid, impenetrable black.

Teetering on the edge of marvel and weirdly disturbed _awe_ , Sam gives himself a slow stroke. It doesn't really glide that well, with the gloves and the condom on, the little amount of lube on the condom isn't enough to smooth the way. And even with two layers of rubbery resin in between, it still feels like him touching himself, which has never triggered his phobia, but maybe, _maybe_ … Deadman could do it, like this, he really could do it. Like this, it would be that much closer than with leather, but…

"Fuck," Sam breathes, imagining it, Deadman's hand on him just like this, wrapped in black, gripping around him, only infinitesimal micrometers away, but far enough to fool Sam's brain. With clothes on, his dick wrapped up – yeah, yeah, it could work. It really could.

But Sam doesn't want Deadman to give him a hand job – he wants the guy to _fuck_ him.

Feeling his cheeks heat up and the skin of his back grow damp with perspiration, Sam lets that thought settle in. Then he turns to the table, and fumbling and almost sending the bottle on the floor grabs for the lube. He's _immensely_ relieved to find that it's not black, that'd be like being fucked in _tar_. The stuff is clear like water, and even with the gloves he can feel the slippery glide it'll enable, as it runs over his fingers, getting rid of what little grip the gloves had.

Arranging himself into a position where he can reach comfortably with minimal humiliation, Sam leans back and, with a last bit of heart pounding hesitation, reaches down. He ends up smearing the lube over his dick and balls, but whatever, he's going to need a shower after this anyway. His thighs end up a little smeared too as he searches – and you'd think you knew where your asshole is, especially when it's fucking _clenching_ like his is right now, but it takes searching. Granted, he's never really gone about touching it, from the front side.

It's – weird. That he figured. It doesn't feel anything like touching his dick, and yet it makes his whole pelvic region _tighten_ in anticipation, as he feels around the puckered sphincter, heart hammering as his fingers glide over the very centre. Fuck, it's small, and _tight_ , he's not even trying to push inside, but the opening feels tiny.

Fitting a dick in there… _fuck_. Sam imagines it pushing in, forcing him open, and – it would probably hurt. Deadman would be slow, yeah, he'd be careful – and he knows his anatomy, he probably knows how to do it with minimal discomfort, but it would still hurt. Sam's so tight.

Would Deadman like it, him being this tight? Just fucking _virginal_ tight?

Swallowing and trying to calm his breathing, Sam rubs his fingers over and around until the whole area is slick and then pushes the tip of his middle finger inward. Tight or not, it's still an opening – his finger goes in, it takes a bit of a push, but it goes in, and _fuck,_ it feels weird. Just the tip of one finger, and it feels – yeah. It's not exactly _pleasurable,_ but that doesn't seem to matter for his dick – he can feel the blood pulsing in it, now, can feel the presence of the condom all around, compressing him as his dick does its level best to harden even more.

Feeling his whole face radiating with heat now, Sam lets slip a noise that sounds horny and confused even to his ear, and then pushes in deeper. Past first knuckle, weird, past the second knuckle, even _weirder_. Fuck, he's hot inside, he didn't realise that – and the lube is just a little bit cold, and the contrast is – it's obvious, and he can't _not_ concentrate onto it. His ass grips around his finger, fucking _flexing_ without his say so, and that's weird too. Everything about this is weird.

Sam pushes in deeper, and it doesn't get better – but it doesn't get worse either. It just… _is_. It's just about the weirdest thing he's done to himself, and despite how odd it feels, he doesn't want to stop, fuck no. He wants _more_.

Loosely grasping his dick with his left hand, slightly more slick now thanks to the accidental lube spill, Sam pulls his finger back, and that's – that's a new sensation. He can still feel the finger there, like the sensation's gotten imprinted on the muscles inside, a kind of burning presence. If it was Deadman, Deadman's _dick…_

Fuck, Sam would feel _hollowed_ out.

Swallowing, his breathing stuttering, Sam strokes himself slowly and then eases his finger back inside, deep inside, as far as it goes. Still weird – but good weird. He does it again, and it doesn't exactly _change,_ but it does too, his body's adjusting to it, even anticipating it, and it's not – it's not bad. It's kind of burning, and it's just about the most attention-demanding touch he's ever inflicted on himself, but…

Sam does it again, a little faster. And then again. The lube is easing the way, slicking it up – it's easier every time, like he's warming up to it, like he's – not exactly _stretching,_ but like… like it's a muscle he's working out, a tendon he's stretching, like – who the fuck even knows. He doesn't know.

It feels _good_ , though, a little better with each pass.

Sam fucks himself with his middle finger faster, until it stops feeling _enough_ , and then he tries to work in his index finger too – and _that_ he feels. He pauses at the sudden sting, it's almost enough to make him pull his fingers out, but – a dick would be bigger than this, definitely. Lot thicker, all around.

His blood is pounding in his ears now, a rushing pulse of it deafening, and still he can hear himself pant, chest rising and falling. He's sweating all over now with the strain, with all of it. It's almost too much, but it's also not enough.

Slowly, gripping his dick a little harder, Sam pushes his fingers in, his body quivering at the burning stretch of it, as his internal muscles are worked open, again.

And then he hits it. His fingers are squished into a weird sort of twist by his intensely gripping asshole, one on top of the other, and the tip of his middle finger is pressing against something that makes his hips jolt a little. And – oh, fuck, he'd completely forgotten about that.

His mouth hanging a little open, Sam presses his fingertip against his prostate, and – _fuck_.

He doesn't think he even breathes for the rest of it. World sort of fades into the blurry distant background as everything narrows down, until even the hand on his dick seems secondary – there's just the burning stretch of his ass and his fingertips, rubbing around the small bump of his prostate. It's hot, and everything feels constrained and tight, his whole body straining until he's bent, hips tilted towards his hand as he massages that point of sensation inside him – it's so much better than he'd realised – it's -

Sam can just see it. Him, contorted just like this, with Deadman holding him open, fingers probing inside – the guy would know just what to do, wouldn't he, how to make it good, make it perfect. He's a doctor, former coroner, knows his anatomy – it would be so good, it would be –

Deadman would get him all wet and loose, hold him open, fingers gripping and _spreading_ his ass cheeks apart – and yet his dick would still burn, it would still be a stretch, and Sam would feel it for _days_ – it would be perfect, it would be – _fuck_ –

Sam's ass tightens hard enough for his fingers to almost _hurt_ as the orgasm powers through him, making him clench and jolt, his hips working against his hand, grinding into his gloved fingers as he grips his wrapped up dick and fills the condom with come. It goes on and on, and he can't stop rubbing his prostrate because, shit, it's _so good_.

"Jesus," Sam groans once he can breathe again, his legs crashing back on the bed and slipping on the satin, leaving his knees spread apart. He probably looks _lewd_ , all lube smeared, fingertips still just at his asshole, but he can't help _touching it_. It feels nice – the whole region is throbbing and hot and _good_ and – "Oh _yeah_."

Heartman is a fucking _genius_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked couple chapters back if there might be a prepper called the "Kinkster" and I was like "Yea, his name is Heartman." lmao


	7. Chapter 7

Of course now that Sam not only has a reason to see Deadman, but is almost, kind of _eager_ to… he can't. After Heartman's lab, it's days on end in the mountains, with next to no connection with anyone during it. The network over the mountains is spotty at best – even when he connects the Geologist and the Paleontologist to the network, with the high peaks and low valleys there's a lot of dead spots where connection sputters and gives no signal – which in the end doesn't matter anyway, because Deadman doesn't even try to get in touch with him.

And Sam… doesn't either. What would be say, anyway? Deadman is on the other side of the country, and it's not like Sam has an _actual_ reason to want to see the man. Aside from maybe wanting his dick up his ass. Even if he really does. And maybe Deadman would come if he asked, which is… it's what it is, but then _what_?

Aside from the three scientists, whose work flies almost completely over Sam's head, there's nothing in the mountains. No safehouses, no waystations, no distribution centers, of course not. Why would they even be needed, since there's no one there? There's nothing there but snow and rocks and BTs. Nowhere for Deadman to come to. These mountains would eat the guy alive. All because Sam is feeling low-key thirsty all the time now.

Sam sighs, rubbing a hand over his neck while looking down the snowy mountainside he's descending from. Down in the rocky valley below he can see the first signs of civilisation in a while – in the form of Death Stranding ruins. There was something here, once, a city or something – now there's a mess of scarred earth and craters. And even at a distance Sam can feel the BTs – there's a lot of them. Asking Deadman to come here…

Yeah, it's ridiculous to even consider.

Hell, Sam shouldn't even be thinking about it anyway, should he? Got work to do, places to be and all that. No time to think with his dick. Even though it's kind of novel that he _is_ thinking about it, at all. He can't even remember when he last wanted anything, especially anything like this. Compared to all his other wants, this is almost kind of healthy even, right? Shit like this is what normal people want. Physical connection and all that.

It makes him feel a bit guilty, though, selfish, for reasons he can't really put into words. It's not like he really believes in the UCA and the great work they're doing, he's in this for Amelie only, and if they'd waited three years with the first expedition, they can damn well wait a day or two here and there for him too, and if he can take a break at some point he'll damn well will, but… he still feels guilty, wanting those breaks.

Maybe it's just not being used to it… or maybe it's the fact that he isn't sure he ever wanted even Lucy this much. And that's a whole damn can of worms he's not getting into, fuck.

Thinking about Deadman keeps him warm, as he makes his way through the godawful BT area with fucking _giant_ BTs to collect some tar extractors, and then up yet another mountain to the final of the three scientists, the Evo-Devo Biologist. He's still covered in tar when he makes it over, listens to her enthuse about the properties of the tar and the genetic factors of survival and extinction or whatever, and connects her shelter to the network.

Sam considers asking her for a favour, a quick pop in and out of shower and maybe a chance to nap somewhere warmer. The Paleontologist had lot of open crates he could get in, out of the weather for a bit of rest, but the Evo-Devo Biologist got nothing like that…

And then Heartman pops up on the chiralgram. "Well done, Sam," he begins and Sam smothers a sigh. "With the Geologist, the Paleontologist and now the Evo-Devo Biologist on the network, you've furthered our research in ways you cannot imagine. We're beginning to understand the Death Stranding in ways we simply couldn't before, and this may yet be the key…"

Sam rubs at his neck, wondering where he'd be sent off to next. Straight to the tar belt, maybe? Shit. On the way from here to there, there's nothing, right? Nothing but mountains and BTs. No buildings whatsoever. And after that, the next stop would be Edge Knot, if he'd even make it that far...

"... Anyway," Heartman winds down. "Do you mind heading back to my lab? Before the next leg of your journey, you will need to restock on materials – the chiral relay we told you about is only half finished, you will need to take with you whatever is needed to finish it. You can get them here."

"Right," Sam says, glancing over his shoulder. It's still light out, at least. "You want me to head there right away?"

"If you wouldn't mind – it's nearly a straight route north from where you are," Heartman says, smiling. "Shouldn't take you long."

Easy for him to say.

"Also," Heartman says, and gives him a wink. "I have something here for you here I think you might find most… enticing. Consider it an incentive."

Sam blinks and then leans back as Heartman gives him a cheeky thumbs up and the chiralgram flickers off. Enticing, incentive? Well that's not concerning at all, is it?

Still, Sam's learned better than ignore the quirks of Bridges scientists, and therefore sets out immediately. Thankfully, Heartman is right about the route, it really is almost a straight line northward, and it looks like mostly easy terrain too, just mountain valleys on the way, no peaks he'd have to climb. It'd still be a bit of a climb, but nothing he can't overcome, and so that's what he does, setting his compass towards Heartman's lab and putting one foot in front of the other.

It's not a short trek by any means, but for once the weather is on his side. It's been a bit warmer on the mountains past couple of days, and now it's turning colder again, temperatures dropping good ten degrees Celsius as he walks – by evening it's cloudless and windless and the snow has hardened enough to nearly carry his weight. When the night comes, it brings with it the whole of the Milky Way almost directly above Sam – and a bright, nearly full moon that makes the hardened snow glow.

It's a beautiful night, if cold as hell. It'd be a shame to waste such a good night, so Sam eats a couple of cryptobiotes from a coral of the Seam half buried in snow, washes their weird tang down with a swig from his flask and pushes forward and into the quiet, still night.

He likes the quiet nights. No BTs on this route, no MULEs, not so much as wind. Just him and the landscape – and Lou, occasionally peeking out of her pod. Even if it is cold as balls, he could do with more nights like these, while on the road. Chances are, he wouldn't be getting them, but… all the more reason to enjoy this one, isn't it?

It's turning towards the morning, and Lou's deep asleep by the time Sam makes it up the mountains and then down, to the heart-shaped lake and Heartman's lab overlooking it. 

The day and night of hiking catches up with Sam finally on his way down to the lab, and even though his backpack is almost empty, he starts feeling the weight. The stairs to Heartman's building almost feel like too much, by the end.

Standing before the glass doors, Sam considers whether he has the energy and then decides he's too tired to deal with the _enticing_ whatever it is that Heartman has waiting for him. It's been a long day. Even if it can't permanently kill him, even he can collapse from exhaustion, and it's never fun, when it comes to that point. Plus, his fingers and toes are numb again - something he's gotten used to up on the mountains, but still doesn't particularly enjoy.

Yeah, the jacuzzi upstairs and the lure of warm bed wins over listening to whatever lecture Heartman has in store in the middle of the night.

So Sam heads to the second floor instead, bypassing the entrance entirely. He could deal with the guy in the morning, once warm, well rested and maybe even fed and watered. Wouldn't that be something. They're probably not expecting him until tomorrow anyway.

With a relieved sigh, Sam drops his things at the entrance of the guesthouse and then heads straight to the jacuzzi, setting Lou's darkened pod bobbing on the warm water before ridding himself last of his clothes and following her with a groan. Lou's so tired, the poor bean, that she only peeks through the screen for a bit, probably wondering about the temperature and the shift in gravity, before stretching her little arms and just going back to sleep.

"Been a long few days, huh?" Sam murmurs, poking the pod a little to send it rocking. She hums and curls up in a sleepy little ball in her pod. Adorable. "Yeah. You just rest up, Lou."

Sam doesn't stay long in the pool himself, just long enough to start feeling like a human being again rather than a frozen corpse still walking around. The day is catching up on him faster and faster, and drowning has never been his favourite way of repatriating. Once his toes and fingers are tingling with the heat and he feels a little warmer throughout, he gathers his things and his BB up and heads inside to find himself a towel to dry with and then a bed and some proper damn sleep...

Only to find out that there's a light on, and that the house… is occupied.

Sam freezes at the entrance, clutching to his things and to Lou's pod, taking in the place quickly. It's not different, everything is exactly where it had been the last he'd stayed here – but he can _feel_ the presence of another person, in the scent of the air, in the temperature, everything. 

Shit. Maybe he should've checked up with Heartman first, after all.

Sam sets Lou down slowly and is just about to start pulling his clothes awkwardly back on, when he spots a dark jacket, hanging off the back of a chair by a window. Then he notices the fine leather shoes, sitting by the doorway. And finally, the dark leather gloves, discarded on a table.

A shudder of realisation runs through him, and Sam finishes pulling his shirt and trousers on as though in a dream, before gathering Lou up and then making his way, quietly, to the bedroom door.

Deadman is lying tucked under the covers, dead asleep on the very same bed where Sam finger fucked himself while thinking about him.

There's a moment where Sam has a mortifying realisation of _everything,_ and he feels as though he can't even _breathe_ for the risk of waking the guy up. Jerkily, Sam glances to the side, just in case – and sure fucking enough, there a familiar looking black and gold box, sitting on the bedside table. Only it's not the same one Sam got - because Sam took that one with him when he left. This is a new one.

Heartman gave Deadman the same kit he gave Sam.

Sam's heart skips a panicked beat, and then it's pounding in his ears at double pace, his whole body flushing hot.

Had – had Deadman tested them? The box is shut, and he can't see any signs of anything having been taken out, but it's not like there's a seal on the thing. It's not cargo, it's just a box that can be opened and closed, and Deadman could've very easily taken out what he needed and then closed it again – had he, had he lied there, exactly on the same spot Sam had, had he touched himself – had he –?

Sam swallows as the hot flush gives way to a shiver and the hair on his skin stands on end. He's suddenly aware of every water droplet on him, dribbling down from his hair, down his neck, into his shirt. He'd pulled the clothes on without drying, and they're now glued to his skin, uncomfortable – too cold against his too hot skin. He feels weirdly trapped in them, cold and hot and smothered.

Deadman is just lying there, sleeping – with Heartman's fucking safe sex box on the beside table. Had Heartman told him he'd given Sam the same? Did they know he _used_ it? The guy's breath is rattling a little – figures he would snore. Sam watches him for a while, uncertain, blood coursing in his ears, unsure what to do. He wants to – he _fears…_

In a daze Sam sets Lou's pod down on the cabinet by the doorway and then he isn't sure what to do. His fingers are stinging now, in that post-frostbite way. His hands are shaking. His limbs ache.

He's tired.

Lou's pod is dark and quiet, and Deadman's breathing is like a metronome, in and out at a steady, slow pace. He's not graceful in sleep – cheek smushed up against the pillow, mouth hanging slightly open, hair sticking up on the pillow. Without his glasses, he looks weirdly naked.

Sam slowly sits down on the edge of the bed and then lies down, on top of the covers, sinking into the still too soft bed like into the freshly fallen snow, only warm and warmer, heated almost throughout by Deadman's presence, by his body heat. This close Sam can smell him, his breath, hint of cologne, soap – he must've used the jacuzzi too, and showered after… 

Sam breathes very slowly in and out, trying not to shudder too noticeably as he sinks into the warmth of the bed, lying his head down on the covers and staring Deadman silently until sleep claims him.

* * *

Sam wakes up to shifting of the surface under him, how it moves his whole body from side to side and then he feels a drop as though a counterbalance is removed and his weight comes down. Confused, thinking he's somehow sleeping on a very soft truck that's suddenly gone off a gentle cliff, Sam blinks awake, reaching out to grab something for balance in case the descent will continue.

He's not in a truck, though – he's lying on a bed, and Deadman's moving away from across him, sitting up with a smothered groan, his wide back to Sam. Sam goes completely still, barely even breathing, as the man runs both hands over his neck, hanging his head. It's a moment before he moves, picking something from the drawer of the bedside table – a pill dispenser. As Sam watches, Deadman opens a slot, pours the half a dozen or so different sized and shaped pills into his palm and then takes them all in one go, before reaching for a water glass sitting on the table.

Once done drinking, Deadman sighs heavily, sits still for a moment, and then shifts a little, turning to look at him.

Sam has just a split of a second to decide whether to pretend to sleep or not. He chooses not to.

"Oh?" Deadman says, blinking, his voice soft and a little rough with sleep. "Did I wake you?"

"Yes," Sam admits, swallowing. His throat is feels almost unbearably dry and his voice sounds like it too. "Didn't – I came in late. Didn't expect you here."

"Heartman's idea of a surprise," Deadman says, clearing his throat and turning to sit on the bed sideways, one leg on the bed, other on the floor. He's wearing pyjamas - dark red striped with black. "We didn't expect you until noon today, at the earliest."

"It was a nice night out, so I just went for it," Sam says and slowly pushes himself to sit. This is – it's weird, again. Like back in the cabin – too close and not close enough, intimate in a different way, weird way, the way he doesn't really know how to handle. "You take a lot of pills," he comments, for the lack of anything better to say, nodding at the dispenser. Every slot on if has no less than five pills, at a glance.

Deadman glances at it and sighs. "Anti-inflammatories, hormones, blood pressure medications, pain medication…" he shrugs. "It's quite the cocktail, I admit. But then so am I, I suppose."

"Hm," Sam answers, running his hands through his hair. He's never had to take any real medication like that – the various antidepressants and whatnot they tried to feed him to fix his phobia didn't really count, they never worked. And of course he knew that despite however he was made Deadman has medical issues, and he is as mortal – if not more so – as everyone else, but…

It's a weird thing to come face to face with, in the light of… everything.

"Nothing to worry about," Deadman promises and then looks him over and smiles. "It's good to see you, Sam. You look good."

Sam shifts his weight a little, uncertain. He'd wanted to see Deadman, he'd had fucking _designs_ for the guy, but now that he's there, Sam just… He kind of wishes he had thrown his clothes into the washer and gotten something else to wear. He's gotta stink.

Deadman hesitates and then looks away. "How is little Lou doing?" he asks, nodding to the pod.

"She's fine," Sam says. "Tired, probably. Went through a big BT zone just before reaching the Evo-Devo Biologist, wore her out."

"Ah," Deadman says, understanding. "And her stress levels?"

"Fine, s'far as I can tell. I haven't even needed to hook her up to a stillmother," Sam says. Which is probably very good, considering that there probably wouldn't be any of those where he would be going next.

Deadman nods thoughtfully and then looks back to him. "How about breakfast?" he offers. "Heartman has quite the selection here, and we never got to do that, did we? Have a nice and peaceful breakfast together."

"What, like a morning after?" Sam asks, and regrets it almost immediately.

Deadman hesitates, glancing away – at the side table. He quickly looks away and clears his throat, his ears reddening. "While not precisely apt in this situation – yes, that would have been nice," he admits and stands up with a groan and a stretch. "In either case, I would rather like some coffee and a bite to eat. There's some... relatively fresh bread from the Timefall Farm in the kitchen – how about it, Sam?"

Sam watches him, his stomach feeling weird. The guy looks all rumpled and soft from sleep, the hair on the back of his neck all messed up, his beard looking all ruffled. He looks _warm,_ and it makes Sam _crave_ something he can't quite name. "Y-yeah, I could eat," he says, and swallows. "Bread sounds – good."

Deadman nods and then heads out of the room, aiming for the bathroom first. Sam sits quietly on the bed for a moment, looking at the door and then also glancing at the bedside table… and the black and gold box, sitting on it. Then reaches over, tips the lid open, and peeks inside.

Yeah, Deadman definitely tested them, too. And more thoroughly than Sam had, at that, judging by how many condoms are missing from the packet.

His face burning, Sam closes the box silently and then leans away, considering grabbing a pillow to smother himself. He doesn't, running his hands over his neck and hanging his head for a moment, trying not to imagine it – and ending up imagining it in great detail. Yeah, self-smothering sounds nice right about now. Quick repatriation would settle his nerves right up. _Fuck._

Sam breathes in slowly and then looks up, sighing even slower.

After this small break, it would be the last leg of the journey – to the tar belt, to the destroyed chiral relay, and then _over_ the tar, somehow, to Edge Knot City. This might be the last time he would see Deadman until… until whatever came afterwards. The last time they will get together, until the end.

 _Enticing incentive_ , indeed.


	8. Chapter 8

They eat, and it's… nice. Definitely nicer than it was at the mountain cabin – something which Sam now, in hindsight, regrets. It had been weeks ago now – and damn if time hadn't passed by fast. He hadn't really appreciated it, not just the surprising, if strange, privilege of it, of having a private place, of Deadman _arranging_ something like that for them… but just the _time_. They had time, then. Even with the supercell brewing above and eventually sweeping them away, they had time. They had time _after_.

Now Sam feels _keenly_ every second, like they're physical things, grains in an hourglass, slipping away to be never recovered.

They none of them really know what will happen, once he makes those final connections. Hell, they don't even know if he will make it that far at all. There's an enormous, impassable _tar belt_ on the way, and they have no idea how to cross it. And Sam's pretty sure even he can't survive sinking into that much tar. There are no guarantees that he will make it. No guarantees he will ever come back.

No guarantees that he will ever have another chance.

"Here," Deadman says, holding out a glass jar of something reddish. "A special treat – try it."

Sam accepts the jar, peering at it. "Jam?" he asks with surprise. "Where do you get _jam_ here?"

"Heartman has extensive stores," Deadman says, smiling. "Now that you've opened some routes, and the roads are finished, trade is moving a little bit smoother, I hear. Including specialised food items."

It's strawberry jam, something Sam hasn't had in years, maybe not in a decade, he's not sure. Not since he left Central Knot, anyway. It tastes a little weird on toast – but then, he's not that used to toast, either. Since he's never been able to starve to death, he hadn't really bothered finding proper food like this, either. There hadn't been a point

The mouth feel of it is a little weird – Sam's not used to his food _scraping_ at the roof of his mouth. And the jam sticks to his lips, a bit unpleasant.

Deadman is smiling at him, leaning his bearded chin to his bare, scarred palm. "What?" Sam mumbles a little defensively around the bite.

"You make faces when you eat and drink," the man comments. "They are adorable."

Sam leans back a little at that, not sure how to take it. No one's called him _that_ in – actually he's not sure anyone's called him that, ever. "Sorry," he says, and swallows.

"Oh no, don't be. You make it so obvious when you enjoy something and when you don't – no defences," Deadman says, sounding fond. "It's harder to say when you aren't sure, you always look the same when confused no matter what is causing the confusion, but when you like something, it's obvious. I like that."

Sam can feel his cheeks heat up. "Shut up," he mumbles and takes another bite.

"That too," Deadman says, smugly, almost victoriously, pointing at him. "Embarrassment and pleasure – so obvious."

"Shut _up_ ," Sam says again, a little firmer this time, frowning.

"Ah, I've crossed a line," Deadman says, nodding. "It's very fine – where you are embarrassed but pleased, and where you are embarrassed and offended. I think I am getting better at reading you."

Sam shifts where he sits, giving him a wry look. "Making me sound like a science experiment," he mumbles around his bite and then reaches for the coffee. "Not very pleased about that one."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't be," Deadman comments, considering. "I'm afraid it's how I tend to approach most everything, though, so I can't promise it won't happen again."

"What about you, then?" Sam asks, lifting the cup to his lips. "You'd think you wouldn't enjoy science so much, considering – everything."

"Ah, I might've been made into a Frankenstein's monster, but my creator wasn't a Frankenstein herself," Deadman comment. "She was, in fact, very kind to me – worked extremely hard to keep me alive, when her experiments with the pluripotent stem cells had run their course and proved not quite enough. I do not regret the way I came to be, Sam, nor the way I was kept alive. I'm grateful, which I suppose contributed to my own interest in the scientific method."

Sam hums. It has the tang of Deadman's usual _oversharing_ along with the general monologues people tend to give him. Only this time, Sam is actually interested. "What was it like?" he asks, lowering the coffee cup. "Coming into being like that? And – I assume you didn't… you weren't ever a kid, were you?"

"No, I was made fully an adult – in fact, I am actually a few years younger than you," Deadman comments. "I was the last of several subjects in those experiments, and the only one who actually grew into sentience – the others perished in embryonic and foetal stages…"

Sam listens interestedly as Deadman details the, frankly, sterile-sounding procedures that had gone into making him – and what it was like, to literally grow up in a tube. He'd been kept like a BB, essentially in amniotic fluid, for almost two years – taken out only for his organ transplantation surgeries. It sounds kind of horrifying, but Deadman seems almost fond, talking about it – how he was taught through the glass, how he got his education from early holograms, how they gave him water-proof tablets to learn from, things like that.

Might explain why the guy thought shower was the safest place in a room.

"Ultimately the experiments were discontinued, of course," Deadman says, calm. "And I remain the only semi-successful fruit of those labours."

"So, they failed?" Sam asks uncertainly.

"Impossible to tell. The embryos and fetuses that failed were too early in their development to fully necrotise – and obviously I haven't died yet," Deadman comments, motioning himself. "So no one knows if I will necrotise either, or if I could conceivably turn into a BT. So, I suppose the experiment is still ongoing, and will be until I die… or the Death Stranding ends, of course."

Sam leans back, picking at the last crumbs of toast on his plate. "Do you think it can?" he asks. "The Death Stranding – do you think it can end?"

Deadman hesitates and then sighs, crossing his hands. "Hopes are higher now than ever. We now have proof that this Death Stranding is only the latest of many, and those Death Strandings eventually ended, and they did not destroy _all_ life on Earth, only most of it. So… maybe."

Maybe's not much, Sam thinks and looks away. "Maybe," he says and then puts his empty cup on his empty plate. "So," he says. "We've had breakfast. Now what?" he asks, looking begrudgingly to the door. "Time to get back to work?"

Deadman tilts his head. He's still in his pyjamas. "Do you want to get back to work?" he asks quietly. "Sam… You know that once you set out…"

Sam blows out a breath and shakes his head. "Yeah, no I don't want to," he says and looks to him. "I really don't, not yet."

The other man looks at him and then smiles – and honestly, his expressions are kind of obvious too. When he's happy, his smile goes completely goofy. "In light of what is about to follow," he says quietly. "I think you've earned yourself a day or two off."

"Oh, _two_?" Sam asks, arching his brows. "Damn. Months on the road and I get two days off at the end. That's something."

Deadman grins like an idiot, shifting where he sits and leaning his elbows on the table. "Two days without anywhere to go. No deliveries, no requests – I can even take your handcuffs offline, and there will be no messages either. Doesn't sound so bad, does it?" he asks, sounding a little hopeful.

The guy is actually serious? Sam blinks and then looks around. "Wait – seriously?" he asks. "Heartman's okay with us freeloading here?"

Weirdly, that makes Deadman's ears go red. "He offered it, happily," he says and leans back away, to compose himself. "The scientists in the area are still delving into the strata and the tar and the proof of the previous Death Strandings – I think they, and Heartman, are just glad of a little bit of extra time," he says. "And the more we know before you set out, the better for everyone, yes?"

Sam's not really even listening – he's staring at Deadman as the whole thing suddenly clicks. "I get two days with you," Sam says. Not just breakfast and maybe a few hours on top – two days and a night in between. Which, in light of what most people get, isn't much, but for him, for this whole damn expedition…

Two days with Deadman, without anyone piping in to interrupt – and no damn supercell storm either. Just them, and Lou, and a goddamn _jacuzzi_ just outside.

Deadman looks just short of abashed. "Assuming, of course, you wouldn't rather spend them alone."

Sam leans forward quickly, making an aborted move to do – something. Grab the guy's arm, maybe, except that's too – no. He settles on hooking a finger into the fold of Deadman's sleeve, tugging. "No," he says. "I wouldn't."

Deadman smiles wide enough that it looks like it must hurt, and Sam wants to do things he knows would leave him just _hurting_. He almost impulsively does them anyway, but – two days. There's time.

"So," Deadman says and tries to hide his proud, happy grin behind his coffee cup. "What do you want to do for your first day off, Sam?"

Sam stares at him, hard. "I want to go soak in the jacuzzi, I want to play with Lou and then I _really_ want you to fuck me."

Deadman almost ends up choking on the coffee, hearing that.

* * *

They end up soaking in the jacuzzi together, Sam, Deadman and Lou, and it's just… _nice_. The view is nice, the weather is frosty but nice, and having Deadman there is nice. And of course Lou, being a little more awake this morning than she'd been last night, is having the time of her life.

"She always plays like this?" Deadman asks, fascinated, as Lou paddles inside her pod and somehow gets enough momentum to actually move the thing.

"Mmhm," Sam agrees, watching her with a grin. "She also dances," he says and then gives a little whistle to get Lou's attention, before beginning to whistle to lullaby to her. He's gotten pretty good at it, and so has she – she's immediately wiggling in her pod, leaning into the glass and making happy noises.

Deadman leans his chin to his palm, his elbow on a bent knee, and hums. "I see there was no issue in re-establishing your bond, then," he muses. "And I can see why she began leaning so strongly on you, Sam. You don't treat Lou at all like most handlers treat their BBs."

"Maybe most handlers could learn," Sam says and puts a hand on Lou's pod. Lou immediately braces herself, excited, and Sam gently presses on the pod until it goes under water. He can hear her giggling under the water, and then there's a happy little squeal when he releases the pod, and it plunges out of the water with a splash, bobbing on the surface.

Deadman smiles a little sadly, and then Lou begins paddling towards him excitedly, and he's suitably distracted. Sam can figure what he's thinking. Lou's past her expiration date, now, after all. And what was it, 70% failure rate?

Yeah, Sam's not thinking about it.

He leans back instead, until his hair touches water, and he's more floating than he's sitting. The sky is bright blue and slightly cloudy overhead, but according to the forecast from the Weather Station there's no risk of timefall. A beautiful day.

There's a splash as Deadman does something, followed by Lou giggling, and Sam closes his eyes, perfectly content.

Lou is the first of them to tire. Used to much quicker baths, she begins yawning half an hour in, and by the one hour mark she's dozing off. Sam figures it's about enough for him too – his hands are all wrinkly anyway. Deadman is looking a little flushed too, pink and red all over. The scars don't take on colour, though – they stand out against his flushed skin, pale and noticeable.

"I can set Lou to rest," Deadman offers, rising from the hot water as Sam watches, eyes straying. "You should shower, Sam, wash yourself, ah… thoroughly."

"Thoroughly," Sam repeats, arching his brows.

Deadman clears his throat, goes somehow even redder about the face, and glances downward. " _Thoroughly_ ," he agrees, pointed, and collects sleepy Lou into his arms.

Ah. Well. Yeah.

Sam stands up with a stretch, all loose-limbed and warm, and hums. The cold mountain air feels nice, and another time he might've taken advantage of it, stayed outside until he cooled off, but… yeah.

He heads to the shower instead – and damn if it's not one of the most awkward and interesting showering experiences he's ever had.

Deadman is all dry and clothed by the time Sam gets out – and the clothing choice is…

Sam stops by the doorway to stare at him, and somewhat self-consciously Deadman shifts his weight and then stands still, letting him look.

The man is clad from head to toe in black – it's like a skintight thermal underwear. Actually, that's _exactly_ what it is, a thermal undersuit, brand new one at that, which fits the man like a glove, from under the chin down to his wrists and ankles… without leaving a sliver of skin showing. He's even got black socks on – and the resin gloves, too, which blend in with the rest almost too perfectly.

"Did – did Heartman make that too?" Sam asks, his voice coming out a little rough.

"Well," Deadman says, licking his lips. "He seems to be – very well researched on the matter. And I daresay, he is on the right track here."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, looking him up and down. The pants got an opening at the crotch, of course they do. "Fuck," he breathes, as the idea that this not only _might_ work, but it fucking _will_ work dawns on him. The fact that Heartman seems more informed about their sex life than _they_ are is fucking creepy, but… fuck. This is actually going to work. The guy is totally forgiven.

Sam lowers the towel he was carrying and then glances at Lou's pod. All dark as she snoozes away, and knowing her, she'd be asleep for the next two, three hours unless woken up. Plenty of time.

Deadman shifts his weight from one foot to the other and then tugs at the wrists of his gloves, adjusting them. Then he holds out his hand, wrapped in only a few micrometers of resin.

Moment of truth.

Sam steps forward, fully nude in stark contrast to Deadman being completely wrapped up, and takes the hand offered. Immediately a shudder runs through him and his skin prickles, the uneven splotchy surface of his arm reddening as his hair strands on end. Fuck – the only reason he doesn't yank his arm away is because it doesn't actually hurt. He can feel Deadman's fingers, clearer than ever, down to details like the way they bend, the give in the pads of his fingers, how short his nails are –

Deadman tugs carefully, holding his breath, and Sam stumbles closer by half a step and then another. His whole body is flushed and quivering, and he almost jumps at the feel of a cool droplet of water falling from his hair.

And then Deadman puts a hand of his face and Sam just – stills. Everything stops.

There's a hand on his cheek. Fingers curling under his chin. Thumb lightly pressing into the crease of his cheek, brushing against the whiskers.

Deadman strokes the pad of his thumb up and then down slowly, staring at him, and Sam's fucking _arrested_ by it. He can't breathe, he can't think, he can't _move –_ all he can do is stand there and _feel it._ Deadman's fingers are hot, like a brand – they're not bruising him, but Sam can feel the marks they leave all the same, indents of heat visible under the UV light –

Deadman tugs at his skin a little, just under his eye – like he's examining Sam's eyebags. Then he trails his thumb down to the corner of Sam's mouth and says, "Breathe, Sam "

Like shocked by a sudden current, as if Deadman's making a circuit with his hands on him, one on his face and the other still gently gripping his hand, Sam comes alive and drags a breath through his slightly open mouth.

Deadman's glove-covered thumb moves and Sam's breath stutters to a halt again, his heart leaping into pounding belatedly – Deadman is pressing on his lower lip now, holding it open, urging Sam to open his mouth further.

"Your tongue is almost black," Deadman murmurs, sadly. "As are your gums. No wonder your lips are so dark. Your diet really demands some more vitamins in it, Sam."

"It – it's the tar," Sam stutters against his finger. He feels like he's balancing on a cliff and Deadman's hands are the only thing holding him up – like he should be up on his toes, straining.

"Yes. Still, vitamins couldn't hurt," Deadman says and meets his eyes. "Is this okay?"

"I don't know," Sam exhales, not daring to move. "A warning would've been nice."

"Ah, yes. Apologies. Should I stop?"

Sam bites back a whine at the thought, trying to swallow it. Deadman notices anyway and smiles, his eyes knowing behind the glasses. He's wearing his glasses – _why_ is he wearing his glasses –

"May I hug you, Sam?"

The shudder that runs through Sam is almost strong enough to knock him off balance. Deadman doesn't move, waiting him out until Sam's steady again, until he can answer. It takes a while, as Sam strangles on the things he tries to get out and which refuse to leave his throat. Everything feels _trapped_ , like his own skin is holding him back.

But, finally, eventually, with a fucking _struggle,_ "... yeah."

Deadman moves slowly, so, so slowly, that Sam could've ran out of the room, the house, the whole fucking building before he felt the hands around him. Sam stands still like a fucking log, like a block of stone stuck on the ground. The warmth of Deadman coming closer is all-encompassing, and then Sam feels him – the press of his belly, wrapped in warm and soft clothing, the hand on his shoulder, other moving to his waist –

Sam's breathing stutters, starts, stops, and then he sighs. It takes every effort to not fucking hyperventilate. Deadman is a soft wall of heat, and then there's an arm around Sam's waist, another over his shoulder, and Deadman's so damn careful that not even their hair touch as Sam draws a ragged breath and tries not to freak the fuck out.

Then Deadman's still, just holding him, all-around and big and touching him everywhere, and Sam…

Sam's not hurting.

It doesn't _hurt_.

"Deadman," he whispers, choked, swaying uncertainly to and away from the contact, unable to fully get away now that there are arms around him.

"You're alright," the man assures, rubbing a palm up and down Sam's bare lower back. It's almost enough to trigger Sam, but – he can feel the sleeve of Deadman's turtleneck shirt and the way the resin glove snags on freshly washed skin. No skin contact. "You're alright, Sam, you're alright…"

Sam swallows a confused sob and shakily touches Deadman's arms, not sure where to put his hands but wanting to put them _somewhere._ He's so warm, it's suffocating him, infusing into his cells, melting him inside out, threatening to boil him. Deadman hums, and Sam's fingers clutch on the thin, warm fabric of his shirt. He's shaking in every limb now, and he can't stop.

"You're alright," Deadman says, despite the fact that Sam can't seem to stop shaking.

Deadman is hugging him – and he's alright.

He's alright.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oral sex, anal fingering, anal sex

Deadman's hands are _everywhere_.

On his back, running down along his spine, down to his waist, following the line of muscles and tendons, up to his sides. On his shoulders, the back of his neck, running to the front, thumbing the line of his collarbones. Moving down his arms, gripping at his biceps, his elbows, his wrists, his hands. They're on his chest, on his ribs, his stomach, pressing lightly on the scar and then moving down, down…

Sam sways into it, still shaky, his mind a haze of sensation – he feels every touch long after the hands have moved on, like there are stains on him, like Deadman is painting his handprints in heat, leaving behind hot, warm trails. It sinks under his skin, sinks into his muscles, Sam feels it in his bones, every joint the man's touched has gone weak and rubbery. It's covering the BT handprints even, and Sam feels both stiff and somehow molten under them – tenderised rock, slowly, sluggishly turning into lava.

Deadman's hands are on his hips now, shameless, moving up and down along his hipbones, thumbing the line leaning down, and the man is _talking,_ but Sam can't keep track of it at all. Something about muscle definition and physical fitness. It's barely audible over the pounding in his ears. He thinks he's still breathing. He probably would've passed out if he wasn't.

Deadman looks at him, and Sam's hazy, confused vision concentrates on him just enough to see the man smile. Then Deadman tugs him towards the bed, where he takes a seat himself, pulling Sam in. Sam nearly stumbles, his feet are distant things and his knees feel weak as he steps between the man's knees and _tries_ to concentrate. But how can he concentrate when there are these smears, these tracks of _touch_ all over him?

Only it's not all over, not yet – and Deadman's seeing to that, palming his thighs, rubbing and stroking, tenderising him further. Somewhere very far away, Deadman says. "… wanted to touch your legs like this since the first time I saw them bare – Sam, you really have such fine…"

The guy is just running with it, touching everything, and Sam's ability to follow what he's saying collapses like a house of cards again – and his attention drains like water down to the points of contact. The feel of Deadman's sock-clad foot, pressing lightly against his bare one. The brush of his inner calf against Sam's outer one, a thin layer of soft synthetic fabric in between. The _hands_.

Deadman strokes the outer side of his thighs first, fingers splayed out and palms pressing in. Down along the big muscles there, to his knees, down to his calf a little ways – to go lower he would have to bend down, and Sam's got just enough force of will left to be wary of the man leaning closer to his bare midriff like that. Then the hands stroke up and wind behind his knees, pushing upwards, fingers leading the way, towards his ass.

Sam thinks he makes a noise there, and he has to shift his footing, or he's going to collapse into a fucking _puddle_. "Deadman," he says, wishing he had something to hold onto.

"You're doing well, Sam," Deadman says. "You're doing so well."

It's the exact wrong and exact right thing to say, and Sam bows his head, shaking it, unsure. Is he? He can't even keep track of where his limbs are anymore. He can't feel his fingers. All he can feel is Deadman's handprints, everywhere. They're like opposites of bruises – radiating _something_ that's not pain, but – it's just a lot.

"You're doing so well," Deadman says again, comforting, and Sam shudders – the guy's close enough that he can feel his breath as he speaks, washing over his scarred stomach, his hands running up and down on the swell of Sam's ass, just short of squeezing.

"What are you _doing_?" Sam asks, shuddering as his body fights between moving away from the touch and moving away from Deadman – or _to_ both, he can't tell. His hips want to move in some way, anyway.

"Touching my fill, now that I can. This is alright, yes?" Deadman asks, and now he really does squeeze, fingers spread out for a good handful.

"Gh," Sam answers, his body taking half a step towards Deadman to try and regain balance, and then he nearly stumbles because that puts him too close to the guy's bare face, and it's just – it's too close.

"Is it, Sam?" Deadman urges him. "Is it alright?"

Sam shudders, and puts his hand on the guy's shoulder – it's either that or falling right into him. Deadman's still fucking _kneading_ his ass. "What do you _think_?" he demands, shaky, and looks down.

Between them his dick is making a valiant fucking effort of getting into contact with Deadman – and at this angle, it's his face it's aiming for. It feels oddly un-urgent, though – Sam can feel it, but he can't really concentrate onto it, not with Deadman's hands where they are. But it's definitely there, and very obvious.

Deadman hums, obviously pleased. "Physical reactions can be involuntary," he says. "Mere evidence of arousal is not informed consent."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Sam groans, shuddering and throwing his head back, gripping the guy's shoulder harder. Deadman did it on purpose, he must've – aiming his breath at Sam's crotch. It washes over his dick, and yeah, now he definitely _feels_ it – the cooler breath of air over tender skin, which is starting to _pulse_ –

"Sam," Deadman murmurs, lower, and now the breath is a little hotter. Fuck. Definitely intentional, this time. "Say it…"

Sam whimpers. "Yes, yes, alright, yes," he babbles, his stomach clenching. " _Yes_."

Deadman hums, pleased, and then his fingers pull slightly at Sam's ass cheeks, pulling them apart. "You like this," he says.

"Yes," Sam says, the skin of his back crawling and his hair standing on end as he feels cooler air wash into that hot valley. " _Fuck_ , Deadman."

"That is the plan, yes?" Deadman says and looks up at him. "How do you want to proceed here?"

"I don't know!" Sam grunts out and looks down at him, grimacing. "I don't know," he says a little calmer and flexes his hand on Deadman's shoulder. "I just – I just want you."

Deadman stares up at him, his hands stilling on Sam's ass. For a moment he looks – surprised. "Sam," he then breathes. "You don't even know how good that is to hear."

Sam looks away, embarrassed. Fuck, it's cringeworthy, is what it is. "Just do something," he says. "You're better at this than I am."

"You really think so?" Deadman wonders quietly, his hands shifting and then rubbing up and down the outer side of his thighs.

"Well – yeah," Sam mutters, not looking at him. "You always know what to do." Hell, that time in the shower… just thinking about it makes Sam's heart beat harder.

"I make educated guesses based on your reactions," Deadman admits, still looking at him funny and then clearing his throat. "But I daresay… they are good ones."

Then, in complete contradiction, he takes his hands off, leaving Sam off balance again without that counterpoint of heady sensation to ground him. While Sam tries to stop himself from whining for him to put his hands back, Deadman reaches for something set on the bed – a familiar black and gold box. "I believe you know what this is," Deadman says, opening it.

"Yeah," Sam answers, swallowing, as Deadman takes out a pair of gloves – and two condoms. "Um… But, uh, you – I want you to –"

"Yes, and I will," Deadman agrees soothingly, holding the gloves and one of the condoms out to him. "But I would rather like to have you in my mouth, before that."

Sam's mind feels like it trips on empty air and then falls down a ravine and into oblivion. It takes a moment for his brain to repatriate enough for Sam to accept the items, and then his skin flushes hot. "Uh – I, I don't know if I can –"

"If you can't, then you can't. But let's try, shall we?" Deadman says, obviously trying to sound calmer than he feels, his whole face red as he examines the condom wrapper he's holding. "Oh, excellent," he says then. "They're flavoured."

Sam looks down at the wrapper. They're cherry flavoured. "Jesus," Sam murmurs. He's pretty sure it's a pun, somehow. 

Deadman chuckles, a little embarrassed himself, and then glances at him. "I'm sure it will be easier for you, to put in on yourself," he points out, smiling awkwardly.

"Right," Sam, agrees, shifting his footing until he no longer feels like he's about to fall over, and then…

Then he stops to watch, as Deadman digs out his own dick through the opening of the long thermal underwear. It's – against the black cloth, held by fingers wrapped in black gloves, it looks almost _obscene_ , pale pink and so fucking _bare_. Deadman gives it a dry stroke to straighten it up a bit, making Sam almost drop the gloves he's holding – then the guy breaks open the condom wrapper.

Sam's mouth feels like it's full of cotton, as he watches the pale, vulnerable skin vanish under the roll of black resin. With careful fingers, Deadman tucks the condom's edge under the fabric, finishing rolling it down through the slit, and then – fuck.

"That is so fucking _dirty_ ," Sam breathes, appreciative.

Deadman flushes redder. "Sam, please."

Sam swallows, and then looks down to the gloves and the condom he's holding. Shivering again, he sets the gloves down and opens the condom wrapper with his teeth, discarding the wrapper on the floor, before grabbing hold of his dick to press the condom against the tip. Deadman watches, exhaling slowly, "Pinch the air out of the tip, Sam," he instructs, and Sam lets out a frustrated, embarrassed grunt before doing as asked.

Fuck if all of this isn't _weird as fuck_ , and yet, having Deadman watch him roll the condom on, it's like… fuck, it's not _bad_. It's weird, but not _bad_ weird. One more thing to add to _it's a bit too much_ pile.

"Why'd you want me to put the gloves on?" Sam asks, even while grabbing them and pulling them on. "You're all covered up already, so…"

Deadman waits for him to get the gloves on and adjust their fit, before taking his hands in his. "For this," he says, and guides Sam's hands to his own head, pushing Sam's fingers into his hair. "Now, grip."

Sam gives a full-bodied twitch at that. "What – seriously?" he demands, as his fingers flex. Even with the resin gloves, he can feel Deadman's hair – damp from their dip in the jacuzzi and probably sweat too, by now. Deadman's scalp is warm.

The scientist takes off his glasses, looking up at him. "Yes," he says plainly. "That way you can control the pace, and pull me back, whenever you like. You're in control, Sam."

That said, he turns his attention to Sam's hard, wrapped up dick.

Sam watches, mouth hanging open and breath completely stalled, as Deadman leans in a little, moving in slow increments, giving him ample opportunity to stop him. When Sam doesn't, Deadman lifts his hands to his thighs again, winding his finger around, and then leaps in closer, his lips parting, tongue sticking out –

 _Fuck_.

Deadman's tongue is pink and kind of perfect – no scars there, no tar-damage, nothing. His whole mouth looks so clean, much cleaner and healthier than Sam's – and then he makes contact. Just the flat of his tongue, pressing against the underside of the head, a warm-soft feeling, made smooth by the condom, but still close.

Deadman looks up, and Sam stares at him, breathless, as the man slowly, _slowly_ moves forward, until the tip passes his teeth and into his mouth, until _heat_ embraces the head, until –

Like hell is Sam in control of _any of this_. He can't do much more than _gape_ as Deadman takes the black-wrapped dick in deeper into his hot, hot, _scorching_ mouth. It's all loose and soft, hanging open – Sam could pull out without risk of injury, if he had actual semblance of mobility left, but he _doesn't._ Fuck, Deadman's got his dick in his mouth, he can't, he can't –

Deadman's lips close over the shaft, forming a seal, and then the relaxed looseness of his mouth tightens. Sam winces, uncertain, as the heat closes up all around, Deadman's tongue pressing flat against his dick, half wrapping around – he's pretty deep in, doesn't the guy have a fucking gag reflex?

Deadman sucks, and Sam's fingers tighten in his hair without his say so, holding him still as his lungs drag in a gasp of a breath, and his body tries to decide what to do, how to react. Deadman looks up at him, brows arching – he looks awkward and ridiculous and _incredible_ , lips stretched and pink and –

"Fuck," Sam breathes. "Deadman."

Deadman blinks, and his tongue _laves_ over Sam's dick, undulating inside as he gives another, less intense, suck. Cheeks hollowing, the guy pulls back a little, just a few centimetres. Sam shudders, his fingers flexing uncertainly, and, still watching him, Deadman pushes slowly forward, taking him in deeper into that burning, wet heat.

It's too much, it's – no. "I can't," Sam says, shaking his head helplessly, "Deadman, I _can't_."

Deadman stills, and then his mouth relaxes again, air rushing in and his lips parting. Sam backs away, wincing as his dick slips out of the guy's mouth, and cooler air rushes over it. He's harder now, and the whole thing is _throbbing_ , but… not very pleasantly.

Sam winces a little, grabbing the base of his dick and willing the sensation to pass.

"Too close?" Deadman asks quietly and Sam nods with a grimace.

He feels scorched, like he's been burned, or like he'd rubbed against something too much – _sore_. Just on the edge of that psychosomatic rash he gets when people touch him, skin on skin. It's already almost _agonizing_ – a little more, and it would've become actually painful and ruined everything.

Deadman's hands rub soothingly up and down his thighs. "Well, now we know," he says, obviously trying not to sound disappointed.

"Sorry," Sam winces, awkwardly dropping his hand from his crotch.

"It's alright," Deadman says and stands up. Sam looks away, humiliated, and Deadman puts his hands on his face, turning it to him. "Sam, really, it's alright. This is what we're doing, yes, figuring these things out? And the sooner we know what you can and cannot handle, the better."

Sam glances at him and then looks at the floor, sighing. His dick is hard still, which is something – and so is Deadman's, so that's good. But fuck, if it isn't a mood killer. "Shit," Sam mutters and hangs his head. "This is so fucking… this is bullshit."

Deadman doesn't let him, his thumbs brushing over Sam's beard, soothing. "Are you alright?"

"… yeah."

"Do you want to continue?"

Sam looks at him and then glances downwards. His dick is tingling weirdly, still pulsing in that near-pain, but… "Yeah," he admits, embarrassed.

"Then not all is lost," Deadman says and pats his cheek. "Come on, let's lie down and get more comfortable. You responded better to the touch to your rear – shall we see where that will take us?"

How the fuck can he just _say_ shit like that? Sam swallows, unable to look at him even while nodding, and with a comforting smile Deadman backs to the bed again, pulling him with him.

The mood is still a little awkward, and it stays awkward while Deadman pushes Heartman's box aside to make them some room. Sam lies down on his side, taking a moment to smother his face in a pillow before looking up. Deadman is holding the lube now, examining the bottle. "Is it flavoured too?" Sam asks, half muffled against the pillow.

"Yes, but I suppose it isn't so important now," Deadman says and looks at him. "Do you think you can handle my touch again this soon, or do you want to do it yourself?"

After the disastrous dick sucking it might be better that way, but… "No," Sam murmurs. "I want you to do it."

Deadman nods, his eyes shining. "Turn around, Sam."

Sam frowns, not sure what way Deadman actually means. He's half lying on his belly, shouldn't that give the guy easy access? His ass is right there, on near fucking display. Wouldn't it be easier like this? But then, considering how things went the first time Deadman was on top… yeah.

Sam turns around, lying on his other side, facing the opposite wall while giving Deadman his back. The scientist moves behind him, the bed rocking under his weight, and Sam can't see his face enough to tell if the position is what he meant, if he's pleased or –

Then he feels a hand on his ass, on the top cheek, stroking over the skin. It feels nice, soothing. "If I do anything you don't like…"

"I'll let you know," Sam says – already, this is much better than the dick sucking. "Go on."

Deadman hums, and his hand turns, thumb trailing down towards the crack. It grips enough to spread Sam's cheeks, and Sam's skin prickles again – it was bad, and great, and terrific before, but that was with them facing each other. This time Deadman's behind him. This time, the guy is probably _looking._

Sam expects a touch to follow, but it doesn't, not immediately. Instead, the bed shifts again, heavier this time, as Deadman lies down behind him, his hand shifting as he does.

"I can't tell if you like being in charge or not," the man admits. "I would assume you would like it, considering your phobia – it would give you control over the proceedings. But you consistently react better when under my diction."

Sam shudders at that and stares at the wall, gripping the bed covers in one hand.

"It's an interesting contradiction, considering your past actions and things you've said," Deadman murmurs, pressing a little closer, his fingers making idle circles on Sam's skin, closer and closer to his asshole. "You hate being under people's thumb, you made your opinion on that very clear – but here, you're the opposite."

Sam turns his face to the pillow, his face burning. Deadman's fingers are down in his crack now, rubbing closer and closer – they're dry, but hot and there, and _fuck_ … so much better. "Is – is it – you don't like it?" Sam struggles to ask.

"I've never considered myself particularly dominant," Deadman admits. "But I think for you I could definitely learn."

Sam drags a breath, and it escapes him in a shocked cry as Deadman's resin-clad fingers find his hole, and without much preamble a fingertip immediately moves to press inside, prying him open without any hint of hesitation. It's just the tip, it's barely even in, but it feels so much deeper and just so much _more_ than his own fingers had. Deadman holds still there, just one finger dipped barely inside, and it's enough to set Sam's whole body alight.

It's a lot, too, just verging on too much, inching towards _painful_.

That doesn't stop Sam's ass from trying to push into it, doesn't stop his breathing from going expectantly erratic.

Deadman is leaning on his free hand, watching him. "Yes," he says thoughtfully. "Definitely much better reaction."

"Fuck, Deadman," Sam groans, embarrassed and needy, and the guy's fingertip shifts enough to send lightning bolts through his spine. "Ah, _fuck_ –"

Deadman nudges the glove-covered fingertip in and out a couple of times, twisting it, rubbing it, tugging at the edge of the sphincter. Sam quivers under it, shocked and helpless and feeling raw like an exposed wire – fuck, it's so much better.

"A mental quirk, perhaps," Deadman murmurs, breathy and fascinated. "Do you think your submissive nature –?"

"Deadman, for fuck's sake," Sam grunts, shifting restlessly into the teasing rub. " _Not_ the time."

"Ah, apologies – you are fascinating, Sam, absolutely exquisitely fascinating," Deadman says, taking his fingers away and grabbing for the lube while Sam groans a complaint. "One of the most physically fit and strong men I have ever met, tall and powerful and so individualistic –"

Sam doesn't hear what else he says, because there's cool smear of lube over his hole, and Deadman's fingers are there, rubbing around briefly before pushing in, slow and insistent, two at once, which is – it is – oh _god_. It's almost too much of a stretch, but he takes it, his body takes it – what else can it do, when Deadman so fucking expertly just pushes in, all the way, in, slow and steady, to the knuckle –

"F-fuck – stretch me out a bit first," Sam complains, even while grinding into the fingers, helpless and shaken. It doesn't hurt, though, but it's just – a lot.

"Common misconception," Deadman says, his voice hot and breathy. "These muscles cannot be stretched, not in a single night – it takes days, weeks, sometimes even months to _stretch out_ the sphincter muscles in a way that they will not recover from within seconds, the best you can do is to warm them up and provide adequate lubrication –"

Sam kind of wants to hit him with a pillow or something, he really doesn't want a fucking anatomy lesson – but then again, the guy's fingers are up his _ass_ , which maybe does kind of require an anatomy lesson, hell if he knows. Deadman's got his fingers as deep as they will go, and he's rotating his wrist, rotating the fingers, leaving Sam feeling _stirred up_ from the inside –

"… assume that you are very sensitive here," Deadman is saying, distant. "The way you're _moving_ , Sam, god –"

Sam's half grinding into the mattress and half pushing onto the fingers, his hips tilting towards Deadman and his legs spreading restlessly. It burns all through him, Deadman's fingers are so fucking _deep_ , but, god, it's already good, it's so good, so much better than it was when he was alone – fuck, he knew the guy would be good.

Deadman pulls his fingers out, slow and careful and then thrusts them back in, smeared with a new layer of cool lube, which just _adds_ to the burning sensation, throwing in a brief contrast of almost relaxing cold. The guy's gloved fingers move easier, slicker – fuck, the noise of it's almost nasty, wet and _lewd_ – and Deadman is taking full advantage of it, rubbing and turning his fingers, finger fucking him steadily.

Sam is losing his fucking mind here. This whole thing went from zero to a hundred real fucking fast, _fuck_. He can't figure out what to do with the rest of his body, it feels like an awkward add-on to the burning core of pleasure, his legs and arms useless dead weight, where is he supposed to put them, what is he supposed to do with them –

"Sam, Sam," Deadman breathes, pushing his fingers deep inside while clumsily using his other hand to pull Sam's hair out of the way, to see his face. "Please tell me it's good."

"It is, fuck, it is, so good," Sam sobs, overwhelmed, gripping the pillows helplessly. "Yeah –"

"Do you think you could take me now?"

Sam shudders and just barely manages to look at him over his shoulder. "I – I think so, yeah," he says. And fuck, even if he can't, he's not going to say that. "Get in there."

Deadman rubs a hand over his own sweaty, scarred brow, and then pulls his fingers out. Sam can feel his asshole clenching needily on nothing, but manages to keep himself from whining as Deadman fumbles for the lube again, to slick his condom-clad dick up.

"Yes," Sam says before the guy can ask again. "Yes, yes, come on, Deadman, yes."

"Yes," Deadman agrees, sounding a little overwhelmed too, as he shuffles closer and spreads Sam open with the lube-slick hand. Sam swallows and spreads his legs, giving him as much space as he can. It's a bit awkward, and at this angle the penetration probably would be shallow, but Sam doesn't really _care_ –

Deadman's dick presses up against his hole, the head broad and hot and condom-slick. Sam can feel himself clenching, his hole all but mouthing at the guy's dick, and then all thought escapes his head, and all he can do is _feel_. The hot, hot, borderline painful stretch, as Deadman holds his dick steady in his hand and begins pressing in.

Sam knew it – he becomes absolutely useless after that point. The pressure, the stretch, the heat, all of it, it very quickly becomes too much for his brain to handle, and his ability to actually co-operate with Deadman just checks out. All he can do is lie there and pant, whole world narrowing down to the push of Deadman's dick, forcing itself deeper and deeper – invading his body, _touching him_ in the most intimate fucking way…

"Sam?" Deadman asks, his voice breathy and rough as he stills. "Sam, are you alright?"

Sam's vision's gone blurry, and all he can do is to reach back to grab Deadman's hand, to wind his gloved fingers with the man's similarly wrapped ones, to keep him there. "Don't stop," Sam chokes out, shaky, as the tears spill over and soak into the pillow.

Deadman watches him quietly and then grips his fingers, reassuring. He's watching, he sees the tears, and he doesn't stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's double chapter day brought to you by my beta Nimadge who is of the option that these two chapters need to go together. And I agree. 👍👍👍


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, last time it was a double chapter day, so there might be a chapter back there you missed
> 
> In this one we shall have masturbation, anal fingering, hint of edging and long distance hologram stuff.

They don't leave the bed for much, after, only for the absolute necessary before getting back in. Not all of it is spent on having sex, that would probably kill Sam, and thankfully Deadman doesn't have the stamina for that either, but there's still a lot of sex. A lot of sexual fucking _exploration_.

There are things Sam hadn't really realised he could do, despite his phobia. Some of them edged on the brink of painful, but could be endured so as long as he could feel or at least see the layers in between, be it cloth or resin, he could take it. And Deadman led the way in those explorations eagerly.

Blowjobs were no go on both ends, in the end – even with the condoms and cloth, it was just too much, it felt like too much. When giving, Sam got a bit further than receiving – there's really no mistaking the feel of condom on your tongue for skin – but then he got overwhelmed by the closeness, the mixture of scents, there was never a position where he didn't feel a little smothered… and should any other part of Deadman touch him, he'd jump out of his skin, no matter how well telegraphed the move was.

"Nothing to worry about," Deadman assures him. "Plenty of relationships do perfectly well without oral sex, and there are many other things we can do."

"You like it, though," Sam mutters.

"Yes," Deadman agrees plainly. "I enjoy giving oral sex, it's one of the things I know I'm exceptionally good at, in bed – but I can live without it."

Exceptionally good at. Well, now that's going to be playing back in Sam's head in the late hours of the night. _Exceptionally good at._ Goddamn.

Handjobs work well though, really well. Less intense and all-consuming than anal sex, too, and less of a strain on both, so… yeah. It takes the same amount of wrapping up, or near as, but Sam can give and receive with minimal awkwardness and discomfort. And it's, it's nice. Lying behind Deadman, both of them clothed, his hand in the guy's crotch pumping his wrapped up dick while getting to plaster himself to the guy's back – yeah. _Nice._

Sam fucking Deadman is an immediate and resounding no – though this time on Deadman's end, even before Sam starts shaking his head.

"I have too many gastrointestinal issues for it to ever be comfortable – and my rectum is malformed in a way that makes even shallow fingering painful," Deadman says regretfully. "Trust me – I tried."

Jesus. So the things they can do are kind of limited – but Deadman seems happy just being able to touch, and honestly so it's Sam. They do that a lot – when they're too exhausted for sex and Sam's too overwhelmed to really function, there's just a lot of heavy petting. Or just lying down together, half a metre apart, when even that becomes too much. And it's _good._ So…

Fuck everything else, really.

Two days pass by – and Sam's beyond grateful that it turns out to be two days and two nights, and Die-Hardman and Heartman don't expect him to venture into the fucking night to go and fix the chiral relay. No, consensus is that he goes bright and early in the morning, well rested and full of energy.

It makes the last morning painful in a different way.

"No one has laid eyes on the site in months," Deadman says, stroking Sam's arm with a gloved hand – wearing the leather gloves now, not resin ones. "We don't know the state it's in, but we do know it's still there, waiting for materials. Chances are, it's damaged, but with luck it will still function enough to work as a Knot in the network."

"Mmh," Sam answers, his face pressed into Deadman's chest. It still makes him shiver, being this close, it still makes his skin crawl a bit – but it's starting to become… better than tolerable.

"After that, all there's left is Edge Knot," Deadman says, quiet. "And no one has yet figured out how to make it through. We tried to upgrade the bridge schematic, but it proved unfeasible – structural integrity failed in all simulations. You can't put supports in the tar, after all – they will only sink, as tar doesn't have a _bottom_ as such."

Sam sighs. He would've preferred not to think about it until he got there. "Amelie thinks I will make it through, so I will," he says.

Deadman is quiet for a moment, his hand stilling a little. "Of course," he says then. "Of course."

Sam opens his eyes and looks up at him. "You doubt her?"

"Hmm," Deadman answers and looks down. "I told you I looked into the old BB experiments. Well, I have been looking into other things besides. There have been many inconsistencies in old records, in orders, in what has been put in writing and what is conveniently missing. There are so many things that don't add up, Sam."

Sam frowns, leaning onto his elbow. "Like with Die-Hardman?" he asks. "You think he's manipulating her, somehow?"

"I don't know," Deadman admits, his hand trailing down to Sam's waist, resting there, familiar tingling weight. "Something just won't add up – is all so scattered, don't you think? We're building this magnificent network, connecting people and cities – and it stands upon a foundation that seems scattered and fractured beyond repair. BBs, the network, Die-Hardman, President Strand, Amelie… it's all connected now, obviously – but I can't find any record of how it came to be like this and what actually brought all of this together. It worries me."

"But it did, right? We're all here," Sam says, confused.

"Everything has a reason. Cause and effect, Sam. Our current state, all these pieces that are locking together, it doesn't seem to have a discernable origin. We're at the point of effect – and I can't trace the cause of any of it," Deadman muses and sighs. "And I suppose the scientist in me is no longer satisfied accepting it at face value."

Sam watches him quietly and then looks away, thinking.

Hell, none of this shit has ever made sense for him. The whole of the chiral network and how it even works goes beyond his comprehension – and everything surrounding it is just a big mess. He doesn't get any of it, but then he never had to, did he? He's just a porter. He gets things from point A to point B, no questions asked.

Lying back down, Sam toys with the fabric of Deadman's shirt. "What do you think will happen when we connect that final knot?" he asks.

"Going by our track record so far – two supercell chiral storms and all the things Higgs has caused?" Deadman hums. "Nothing good, I'd say."

Sam closes his eyes at that. "Well, now I don't want to go," he mutters.

Deadman chuckles at that and winds his arm around him. "Would that we could stay here," he says. "But perhaps I'm wrong, everything will go well, and at the end… we can spend as many days together in bed as we'd like. Wouldn't that be something?"

Sam sighs and presses his face back into Deadman's chest. It's like sticking his face into the blistering sun – he can feel the heat permeate his cells, making them vibrate. Fuck, he's going to miss the feeling.

"We should get up," Deadman says regretfully. "It's light outside."

Sam refuses to look.

"Well," Deadman says. "Maybe five more minutes."

Getting geared up and ready to go is even worse than it had been back in Capital Knot when he'd started this whole damn quest – leaving Deadman's warmth is like trying to tear a body-length strip of velcro, every centimetre fighting against it. But there's no getting around it.

Sam pulls his cargo harness on, slots sleepy but excited Lou in her place and then looks at Deadman, once more in a full suit.

"I will call you on the way," the man says. "And I will see you when all of this is done."

Sam nods, his throat tight, too tight for words. He hesitates at the doorway – it's snowing outside, so this would be as far as Deadman would go. He doesn't have a timefall-proof suit, after all.

And fuck, Sam doesn't want to go.

Deadman sighs, "Oh, Sam," and holds out his arms. "Come here."

The hug makes walking away even harder, really, and no matter how tight it is and how Sam feels it sinking into his bones… the wind outside sweeps the feeling away almost in an instant.

He's scowling when he activates the terminal downstairs, and Heartman appears with a cheerful, "Done with your holiday then, Sam? Did you enjoy yourself?"

Sam glares at him and Heartman hesitates. "Ah," the man says, sympathetic and all too understanding. "Well. Back to work, then."

* * *

Of course nothing goes well. After the long trek from Heartman's lab past the Geologist and the Paleontologist and further west, it's a long way to and down the mountains, dragging behind a carrier full of building materials. It's a bit shocking how quickly Sam gets tired of it, how quickly he gets _sick_ of it. Usually he can just brave through it, get a good rhythm going on and it becomes good, but…

The taste of something easier, something _lovelier_ has spoiled him. The mountains are cold and desolate – beautiful to look at but far from comfortable. And more than anything, Sam wants to go back and get in the bed again and not move for a week.

Travel exhaustion – he's usually better at dealing with it, ignoring it, but it gets to all porters eventually. And it's been, what, almost nine months now? Nine months on the road, some of that spent _building_ roads, and now that he realises how far he's pushed himself...

Lou makes a worried noise as Sam crests another mountain, and he sighs. "Just a bit tired," he says, patting the pod gently. "It'll pass." It's not like he can stop now, after all of this, so close to the end.

It'll be almost two weeks of climbing, descending, hiking and generally just wading in the snow, before he'd reach the edge of the tar belt. In that time he gets a bunch of emails from Deadman, and from other people, but only a couple of calls. There's not enough enough of chiral bandwidth. But the calls he does get are… almost enough.

"How are you doing, Sam?" Deadman asks, his image flickering and breaking apart at the edges as Sam shelters behind a boulder – it's windy as hell, and the wind is blowing timefall almost right into his face – and his oxygen mask is already out of power.

"Wishing I had a ski mask," Sam admits while taking off his sunglasses – best thing to eye protection he has, never mind useful on the sunny days when the glare gets blinding. "And goggles. And maybe some actual _skis_ – why aren't those part of my gear?"

"Die-Hardman deemed their use too dangerous on the mountain slopes," Deadman admits. "The potential of you sliding into a deadly fall was estimated to be very high."

"Tch. I can already do that with the floating carrier," Sam says.

"I'd rather you didn't," Deadman says, smile in his voice. "It looks like you're about halfway there – you're making good time."

"Mh," Sam grunts in answer and sits down in the snow, to wait the blizzard out. "Where are you right now? Back in Capital Knot?"

"Yes, it's been back to work for me as well," Deadman agrees. "I have been looking into potential methods of crossing the tar belt…"

That still don't have a method at hand by the time Sam makes it down from the mountains and the snowy area and finally to the destroyed chiral relay. The whole place is dead – tar has seeped into the shore and poisoned it for kilometers on end – and in the distance Sam can see the destroyed remains of an old city. Or not an old one – a new one, recently destroyed, weathered and worn down by constant timefall.

There would be BTs there, then. Great, just what he needs.

Sam competes the chiral relay, and Die-Hardman offers him empty congratulations, telling him that now that the network reaches there he'd be sending people to build a safehouse and maybe other things, try and build some infrastructure for future activity and maybe settlement.

"But that's not important – what's important is to get you across that tar belt," Die-Hardman says. "We've been wracking our brains over it for the past month with no results – there's nothing we can build the tar won't immediately swallow. Do you have any ideas, Sam?"

Sam looks at the tar belt and then turns to look at the destroyed city. There's a reverse rainbow hanging over it, a sign of doom. "Yeah," he says and snorts. "I've got an idea."

Just what he needs indeed.

* * *

He gets to the other side, and then there's Higgs', there are BTs, BTs and _more fucking BTs._ Edge Knot is long gone, brought to rubble who knows how long ago, and everywhere is crawling with the dead. It's a shitshow, all around. And then finally – there's Amelie.

And then everything gets worse, and _nothing_ makes sense anymore. Sam follows them to the Beach with Fragile's help, Higgs is there, the crazy motherfucker, and then Fragile takes over, and Sam goes to Amelie – the whole thing is like a fucking fever dream, just one bit of confusing nonsense after the other, until Sam isn't sure where he is, who he is – it's like there's a hand inside his head, playing him like a doll, and _nothing makes sense_. Amelie, Bridget, Clifford Unger, fucking Die-Hardman… it all blends together into a mess inside his head, until Sam's not sure which way is up and which is down.

Then Amelie boots him off the Beach, and Sam wakes up in a safehouse, east side of the tar belt, to find that the world's gone to hell.

"It began just a little after Fragile sent you to the Beach," Deadman explains as Sam stares listlessly at the weather report – chiral spikes as far as the eye can see. "It's almost spectacular in a way – a nationwide, or perhaps _world_ wide aurora borealis. As portents of doom go…"

"And that's why Fragile can't jump anymore," Sam concludes grimly. "And can't take me back in there."

"Fragile used the last remaining time we had in getting everyone together to Capital Knot in preparation of what would follow, but even that proved detrimental to her," Deadman says. "We did it, expecting that she could similarly jump you here as well, but… now we're stuck on the opposite ends of the country."

And back in Capital Knot they can't do anything about Amelie, or Cliff, or Die-Hardman, whoever is behind all of this. Only Sam can, because only Sam can get to Amelie's Beach.

"Fuck," Sam mutters. "Not sure I signed up for this shit. Actually, I am sure – I _didn't_."

"None of us knew it might get this bad, and especially not this quickly," Deadman says, looking towards Lou, safe in the stillmother terminal. "And I'm afraid there's no getting around it – you will have to come back the same way you went. That's the only way we can get you back there."

"Shit – you have any idea how long that will take? It took me nine months to make that trip, now I gotta do the same, the opposite way?" Sam demands. "You think this," he notions to the terminal and the weather report, "will hold steady until then? We're on the brink of oblivion, I don't think it will just _pause_ for me."

"We hope it will, actually," Deadman says apologetically, turning to him. "That Amelie will. If she has any control over this, if she can stall it at all… we hope she will do it for you."

Sam blows out a breath. It's… not completely ridiculous, he has to admit. He doesn't like it, but...

"There is no other way," Deadman says quietly, coming to him, the edges of the chiralgram flickering threateningly. "I will be with you on the way, as much as I can – I will see you in every private room, I promise. But I can't do anything else for you. I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam wraps his arms around himself, looking at him and then bowing his head. "No contact until then, huh?"

"I'm afraid so," Deadman says, his intangible hand hovering over Sam's shoulder. "If I had known…"

Sam shakes his head. "Better you're stuck there than here," he says. It's not like the guy can travel without Fragile, not easily, anyway. "Alright," Sam sighs. "I'll get going then."

"You can call me any time, Sam," Deadman says urgently. "For anything. I'll be here – I'll be waiting."

Sam nods, not looking at him. When he finally wants to touch someone, desperately wants to reach out and touch them… he can't. Talk about irony.

Deadman hesitates, hands hovering, and then leans closer, close enough that it confuses Sam's senses enough to give him a sudden, full-bodied shiver. "And I can always direct you, even at a distance," Deadman says, his voice low, raspy. "Just how you like it."

"Fuck, man," Sam shudders, feeling his face heat up. "It's the fucking _apocalypse_ , you think we have the time for it?"

"Well," Deadman shrugs, unconcerned "It _is_ the apocalypse. If this is to be the end of all of us… we might as well enjoy ourselves, yes?"

Sam gives him an incredulous look and shakes his head. Unbelievable.

* * *

Sam ends up taking advantage of the offer _several_ times, in the end. The way back to Lake Knot is hellish – the weather is a mess, there's timefall and BTs everywhere, and Sam needs to constantly run and fight, barely scraping by, kilometer by kilometer. By the time he manages to crawl his way to Mountain Knot, he's exhausted and frustrated, angry at the world and so fucking sick of it all, that when Deadman's chiralgram pops up in his private room, Sam just sighs and collapses on the bed. "Oh, fuck me."

"That bad, huh?" the man asks, looking him over with concern. "You're covered in chiralium, Sam, your should shower before resting. And put poor Lou in her terminal, she looks tired."

Sam groans and closes his eyes, not moving. Lou's fine, not a bit of stress coming off of her, and she can sleep wherever. It's fine, for a bit.

"Sam, please," Deadman says. "Do it for me."

"What's in it for me?" Sam asks, not opening his eyes.

"Well… I have been reading up on phone sex, and I have some ideas," Deadman admits and Sam's eyes snap open.

It ends up being a rather exhaustive shower, all in all. The flickering of Deadman's chiralgram threatens to ruin the mood a little – it's a constant reminder that the guy isn't actually there, and Sam's beyond the point where flickering chiralgram is enough to confuse his senses. When the image is steady and solid and he can't be sure if he's real or not, Sam can still _feel_ himself react to Deadman's presence, but the flickering – it takes away from it.

Weird thing to miss, the shivers and the phantoms of sensations which were once enough to make his skin crawl, but now happen less and less with chiralgrams. Maybe it's because he now knows what the real deal feels like, who knows. 

There's no getting around the feeling of Deadman _watching_ him, though – the man actually sits on the shower floor, lazily stroking himself while directing Sam, very visually and vocally appreciative of the sight of Sam fingering himself for him. So, yeah.

 _A very_ exhaustive shower.

"There," Deadman pants, eyes shining and face red with pleasure while Sam shakily kneels on the shower floor, shuddering in post-orgasmic agony. "All clean."

Sam snorts at that and clumsily turns around to face him, sitting on the shower floor as well. It's the same shower where everything begun. It feels almost nostalgic, despite the fact that outside the world is ending. "You're something else, you know that?"

"It has come up a time or two," Deadman admits, not very modest, watching him. They're quiet for a moment, coming down, their breaths evening. Then the man asks, concerned, "How are you doing, Sam? How is it, out there?"

"Like hell," Sam admits, stretching his legs out and closing his eyes with a sigh. His ass is throbbing and he kind of wants to crawl into bed, but the shower has invigorated him too. Weird, weird feeling. "The weather's whacked, and there are BTs everywhere. But I can manage it. I'll get a truck here, it'll make things easier. No more mountains to climb." Not until the Eastern region, anyway.

Deadman hums and there's a sound of him standing up, rub of wet skin against glass, hollow thud... "Good, that's good," he says and then, "You should finish your shower and get some sleep."

"Yeah, yeah, give me a moment."

"Sam, you don't want to fall asleep in the shower."

Sam smiles a bit, seriously considering asking him _what's in it for me_ again, just for shits and giggles. He doesn't, taking a deep breath and then standing up also. "Yeah…"

Deadman nods, satisfied, and looks him over, appreciative. "Stop by the distro center too," he tells him "I'll think of something new and see you there."

And he does too, and after the mess that's the watery plains from the mountains to the distro centre, it's appreciated too. There are still assholes in the area too, former Homo Demens members, who knows what they're now that Higgs' gone, but they're still assholes anyway, and freaking out about the sky with the best of them.

Sam barely makes it to the distro center with his truck in one piece, riddled with bullet holes. So, yeah. He's pretty damn eager to head indoors for a bit.

In the private room, Deadman is waiting, and he has ideas. Taking one look at Sam's bloodsoaked, exhausted, irritated visage, he directs him to the shower and then to the bed. Then Deadman instructs Sam through the slowest handjob of the fucking decade, edging him until Sam forgets about the terrorist, about the shit going outside, forgets _everything_ , until he's _this_ close to begging Deadman – who finally finishes him with a thoughtful, "I wonder how you would deal with a cock ring..."

Sam just about passes out, after he's done straining through a frustrated and achingly long orgasm. Damn if it's not the best sleep he'd gotten in a while, though. It makes him really look forward to the next time – especially so since there would be more rain, more BTs, and who knows what else.

The world is ending, still. The apocalypse is still going. The sky is a wash of flickering colours, and there are rainbows everywhere, and the areas that had BTs before are now crawling with catchers. It's all going to hell, and the only reason Sam can push as far as he does is because he has that little thing to look forward to – a little bit of rest, and Deadman, waiting for him in the next private room.

There is no cock ring the next distro center, nor is there anything terribly exciting waiting for Sam either. Deadman looks tired, telling him they've had machine failures all over the country as chiral spikes overload the systems, and they've been putting out bushfires all week. He's not had a moment's rest in days.

"I just want to watch you," Deadman says, lying on the private room's bed with Sam, intangible and weightless. "Just do what you like, Sam – I just want to look at you."

It's somehow worse and better than the edging, having Deadman just watching him sleepily. The guy falls asleep on his end before Sam makes it over the edge – it makes the last strokes kinda awkward. Deadman stays there, though, his image flickering and stuttering as he begins to snore.

Sam cleans himself up, gets rid of the condom, checks up on Lou – fast asleep – and then just lays back down with a sigh.

Next stop would be Lake Knot, and considering there's another chiral supercell storm brewing up… it probably wouldn't be a fun trip over the lake. And after that last leg of the journey to east, to Capital Knot… to Amelie.

So Sam takes what he can, staring at sleeping Deadman until he too falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to, and there's gonna be a time jump to the end of the game


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skips right to chapter 14 of the game and spoilers about Lou.

At the end of everything, Sam feels… almost nothing. Wrung out, maybe, like an overused rag that's finally been discarded after years of abuse. And what it says about his mental health that he can't help but think of it that way, as abuse… fuck if he knows. Feels wrong and feels right, all at once.

Amelie is gone – not _gone_ gone, but as good as. Die-Hardman is going to be the president. The Death Stranding is… it's something. Things have changed – every day, some reading pops up, different from the way it has been for years on end, and the scientists in Capital Knot lose their minds over it, trying to figure out what it means. It's sputtering out, they think. It's ending, they hope, but no one dares to word it.

No one fucking hesitates to say that they _saved the world_ , though. Gotta build their shiny new country on something, and since the groundwork Bridget laid out is all fucked up… better build it on hope. Just sweep all the shit that came before under the rug, hush-hush, just ignore the dead babies, please…

Fuck, Sam's tired.

"Sam?"

Sam looks up to see Heartman walking towards him, hands in his pockets, the AED beeping away at his chest. "Do you mind if I join you?" the man asks, nodding to the bench he's sitting on. "I'm about three minutes from cardiac arrest, and I'd rather not walk all the way to a private room in the middle of the preparations."

"Knock yourself out," Sam grunts, and with a grin and a thumbs up, the scientist sits beside him, stretching out his legs. Sam shifts a little to the side, avoiding contact.

"It seems like things are coming to an end, doesn't it?" Heartman comments, looking over to the hall, where they're carrying furniture, preparing for the broadcast. Die-Hardman's inauguration would be broadcasted throughout the network, and they wanted _props_ for it. And a couch, in case Heartman died in the middle of the broadcast.

"Looks that way, yeah," Sam agrees, leaning his elbows to his knees. Deadman is right there, in the swing of things, directing people, tinkering with the chiralgram machinery.

Heartman looks at him and smiles. "We've come a long way. You more than anyone – through the country and back," he says. "And now the network stretches from east coast to the west… it's a marvel, no question about it. And you did a marvellous job, connecting those knots."

"Spare me," Sam says and glances at him. "What do you want?"

Heartman's smile fades a little, and then he leans back, resting his hand on the back of the bench. "You're about to leave – we can all feel it," he says. "You haven't done all that much to hide it. You feel as though you've done your part and now it's time for you to take a hike, so to speak."

Sam scowls and looks down. "Fucking _spare_ me," he repeats. "I never cared about any of this shit – rebuilding the country, all of it."

Heartman smiles, wry. "We know, that too was quite obvious. But back then, it seemed like a fool's errand, yes? Why rebuild a country at the end of the world – what is the point? Well, the end of the world is winding down now," he says, and lifts his cuffed hand, opening a map. "BT areas all over the country are shrinking – and the Weather Station just released their latest data on the timefall. Its effect is lessening. If this keeps up, within a month… it might very well be over. The Death Stranding… is ending."

Sam blows out a breath and looks down. He misses the weight of Lou's pod – she's in a lab, getting treatment. Hasn't been the same, since the whole fucking debacle – since he came back from the Beach…

"We don't yet know if the chiral network will survive," Heartman comments. "It relies on the Beaches, and whether those Beaches will remain once the Death Stranding fully ends is still up in the air. If it takes the chiral network with it, we will be back to the square one quite quickly."

"If you're thinking I'm going to fucking fix the network again –"

"No, that is not what I'm saying at all," Heartman says with a sigh, smiling, and looks at him. "What I am saying is that the work is not finished – and that we have a _future_ , where the work still matters."

Sam gives him a look, uneasy.

"Now comes rebuilding, true rebuilding. If we lose the chiral network, with it goes all the technology we have invented in the last four decades and more," Heartman comments. "Chiralgrams, chiral printing, it all might go, we don't know yet, but we're preparing for the worst. If it _does_ go…. things will be harder – but there's still a nation to be built, and it _will be_ _built_ , because now we have time. And no timefall, we hope, to tear down what we do build."

"So it was all for nothing?" Sam asks, uneasy.

"Well, obviously not, you did save the world," Heartman says and shakes his head. "Prevented the Final Stranding, that is nothing to sneeze at. But, now that it is over… we're only at the start of rebuilding. And for that we need builders."

He's not looking at Sam though – he even nods pointedly at what he actually means.

Warily, Sam looks up and to the room they're setting up. Deadman is standing in the middle of it, craning his head this way and that as he keeps track of everyone's work, before turning to scurry off to adjust something, out of view. For a former coroner, he's getting up there, huh.

Heartman glances at him, smiling wryly, and Sam hangs his head.

… yeah.

Whatever happened… _this_ is Deadman's world, Deadman's place. Here, in Capital Knot, right in the middle of things. The guy might have trust issues with their future president, but there's no question about whether or not he wants to be involved. Considering how he came to be, and what kind of past the whole thing has… Deadman is very loyal to their attempt of a nation.

As much as Sam wants to just walk away… Deadman wouldn't. And he'd never feel comfortable out there, away from all of this, would he?

"Never said thanks," Sam says roughly. "For what you – you know."

"An awkward thing to thank someone for, I understand," Heartman says, smiling. "It's alright. I am glad to know I helped – and Deadman was grateful enough for both of you."

Sam can feel his face heat up at that.

"The thing about relationships and love is that one must make compromises," Heartman comments and Sam gives him a sideways glance. "And I know, you have compromised more than your fair share of beliefs, desires and personal freedoms for our cause, and for my part I am sorry… But at the end of the day, doesn't that mean you have _earned_ the right for more?"

Sam frowns at him. "The hell are you saying?"

"You're no longer an outcast, Sam, fluttering in and out of the fringes of society," Heartman points out. "Not a _mere repatriate_ , a freak of nature to be avoided. You're a _hero_ , and given half a chance, Die-Hardman himself would put your name on a banner and use it to bolster his support – at this point, you are far better known than he is. And far better loved."

With a grimace Sam looks away. Fuck, he hates that.

"What I am saying is that… you could have a place _anywhere_ now," Heartman comments. "You could belong, and people would be _glad_ to have you. You're no longer a pariah of society, Sam – and I'm not sure you've fully realised what that means for you. What kind of opportunities it might give you if you choose –"

Sam blinks and then quickly catches Heartman, as he up and dies on him and begins listing to the side. Wincing a little at how limp and lifeless the guy feels, Sam quickly stands up and eases him down onto the bench, stretching him out on it. Once he's sure Heartman is comfortable, Sam turns to the hall, walking a couple of steps closer to the doorway, to watch.

Die-Hardman is standing by the podium they set up for him with Lockne, going through his speech, it looks like, and the guy looks almost nervous behind his mask. Not far from them Deadman is tinkering with the projectors, looking all excited and eager – happy to see their work have some kind of conclusion, maybe. It's been years of work – just one for Sam, but longer for the rest of them. They're all more invested.

Sam still feels a bit like an outsider, like he should turn around and walk away from all of this.

Folding his arms, he watches Deadman flitter about like an excited butterfly and tries to make up his mind.

* * *

"… she was never truly alive, the poor thing," Deadman says, while Sam stares at the pod, at Lou – floating lifeless inside it. "And I'm sorry, but the last trip from Port Knot to Capital Knot, it was too much. The treatment I gave her during it was just prolonging things, and once Fragile slingshotted me and her to your beach…"

"Lou died," Sam murmurs. "When you got me out, Lou died? She died to get me out –"

Deadman shifts his weight, looking distraught. "You have to understand, Sam – it was always inevitable. She was well past the safe limit of BBs lifespan, and these children, they're always on the brink. Even if she hadn't been with us on that Beach… it would have happened, soon. There was no avoiding it."

Sam's shoulders slump, and he feels a terrible cold weariness wash over him, like the exhaustion at the end of three days in a row without sleep. Wrung out, again, and worse than before.

Deadman strokes his hand over Lou's pod. "She must be burned. Can't risk necrosis," he says quietly. "There's a decommissioning order… I would have done it myself, spared you from it, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. And it wasn't like I could do it without telling you, without showing you… I am so sorry, Sam."

Sam sighs, hanging his head for a moment and then taking the pod. "I'll take care of it," he says, his throat feeling like someone's got a hand gripping around it. "Don't worry about it, I'll… go to the incinerator."

Deadman nods, swallowing, and watches Sam hook her into his harness, the pod dark, lifeless. Then he looks up at Sam's face, and his expression twists somewhere between grimace and painful smile, like he knows, like he –

"Here," Deadman says, his voice choked, and lifts his wrist and turns it. At Sam's side, his handcuffs unlock. "There. They're offline, nothing to stop you from removing them – and you have a full admin access to them, now, so you can do… whatever you like with them."

Sam looks down on the cuffs, the monitoring end having come loose. "Deadman…" he says, grimacing.

"Of course, no one has been able to monitor you through them without my say so for months now," Deadman admits, looking away. "And I selectively put them in privacy mode whenever – wherever appropriate. But now you can take them off, outside of the Bridges facility, so…"

Yeah, before it was always in a private room, or a place he couldn't actually leave easily. Before, he couldn't just take them off and walk away. Sam looks at the dangling handcuffs and then lowers his hand, feeling a new wash of different kind of chill crawl up his spine.

"Also," Deadman says, sounding anxious, looking away, eyes glistening even behind his tinted glasses, "There's nothing to stop you from taking Lou out of her pod, now. It was always likely to be fatal to her, of course, but now… it hardly matters."

Sam rests a hand on the darkened pod, his mind feeling sluggish, as Deadman trails away, his breath rattling wetly in his nose. "Right," Sam says. "Right."

Deadman nods and says nothing, stepping back awkwardly. Sam looks at him and then down. This is it, then? He goes, burns Lou, and… everything will go back to the way it was, no ties to anyone or anything. Not UCA, not Lou, not nothing. Not Deadman either, the guy would stay here, continue his work, whatever that would be now that there's a nation in need of a government. And Sam would just walk away and forget everything ever happened.

Sam looks away, to the way that leads out, his boots feeling like lead.

There's no way around it, though. Lou would have to be burned. If there's someone he doesn't want to end up as a BT, it's her.

"Right," Sam says, and turns to walk away. Behind him, Deadman releases a shuddering breath – it sounds like a sob.

Sam doesn't look back, lifting his chin and walking out, one foot in front of the other.

It's the hardest fucking trek he's ever done.

How beautiful the day is makes it almost worse, climbing those last meters up and to the platform where the Incinerator is. There used to be BTs here, loads of them – when Bridget's body was burned, the whole area became inundated with them. In hindsight, it's so obvious why burning her specifically caused such a huge chiral spike, but now…

The BTs are gone, and so is the rain – sun is fucking shining onto the incinerator, casting the rocky hills around it in beautifully vivid light. The grasses and mosses look vibrant and shit – and behind, far away, the crater that was one Central Knot is no longer spewing tar and chiralium into the atmosphere. The gravity has returned to normal, there. No more rubble, bodies and ghosts floating up into the air.

Everything is getting better, all over, and Sam feels like a dead man walking, approaching the building. And how fucking nostalgic it is. Everything began with this incinerator – this is where they were trying to bring the body that ended up taking out Central Knot, this is where Sam took Bridget after getting shackled by Bridges, and here is where it will all end, when he burns Lou. And after…?

What the fuck would there be, after?

Sam stops where the raw ground gives way to pavement and looks down at the pod, detaching it from the harness. "Guess we're here," he murmurs. Lou's floating upside down, curled up like she's sleeping, but she isn't. He's not hooked in, but he can feel it – she's…

Swallowing, Sam grabs the lead, looking at it. It's still attached on his end – he'd put it in automatically, along with the rest of his gear. The idea that he would never do it again, never hook into her again… it fucking _kills him_.

Without thinking about it twice, Sam trails his hand down the lead to the end and hooks it in Lou's pod – and everything fades.

* * *

How long Sam stays in the incinerator, he's not sure. Could've been hours, but probably wasn't. The weather changes outside though – it starts to rain, but… it's not timefall rain, it's just rain, just water, with no added bullshit. No hint of shiver, nothing from his DOOMS. Hell, his DOOMS might be gone at this point, he doesn't know. How fucking weird is that?

Lou's a little fragile bundle of warmth in his hands as he steps out – wringing her little hands and letting out chirpy little coos, high and beautiful. Sam can't get over it, how she sounds, how she smells – how she feels, in his bare palms. She is so small, and it doesn't hurt to touch her, it would _never_ hurt to touch her.

Sam looks over the area, squinting against the sun shining through the clouds and glances up. There's – there's a rainbow, but it's upside down. No, it's the right way up, the arch to the top, the ends vanishing behind the mountains. A full, natural rainbow – pointing the way away from the incinerator. And towards Capital Knot.

Sam hesitates, and Lou makes a quiet noise of complaint, as a droplet of cool water hits her bare back. "Ah," Sam says, and then eases her into the shelter of his suit, to rest against his chest, safe from the rain. God, she's so small. "Yeah," he says, as she settles, sticking her thumb in her mouth. "We better get going, if we want out of the rain, huh. It's a long way."

It's hard to concentrate on walking through the rough terrain, with Lou against his skin. She has sharp nails, and she keeps shifting a little, toes scraping on Sam's scar, fingernails raking over his skin, and it doesn't hurt. Even though they're sharp, he doesn't even twitch. He feels her, but none of it bothers him – it's almost the opposite. He basks in the feel of her, her warmth, her everything.

It makes the kilometres pass fast. Lou's asleep when he gets there, quietly snuffling against his chest, her breath coming in almost soundless puffs.

The Bridges' systems read his ID and let him in without issue, and Sam lifts his cuffs, flicking through his contacts and putting in a call.

"Sam?"

"I'm back," Sam says, looking towards the Bridges distribution center. "Where are you?"

"I'm – at the hospital," Deadman says slowly, with a hopeful note in his voice. "I'm in the middle of something, but I can meet you in your private room in an hour or two, if – if you'd like."

"No need," Sam says and looks down to Lou. "Coming to you."

"Sam –"

Sam cuts off the call and then heads towards the road leading to the hospital, hastening his steps.

Lou's still asleep when he makes it there – and Deadman is waiting for him, nervously pacing the front, dressed in his red, tar-proof hospital jacket. He almost stands at attention when Sam approaches him, fiddling with his hands nervously and then lowering them. "I – didn't think you would come back," the man admits, glancing him over. "I wouldn't have blamed if you hadn't."

Sam lets out an agreeing grunt, staring at him – he wouldn't have, probably, if things had gone differently up there. And damn… he'd walked away, not daring to look back, it had made it easier, because if he had looked back he probably wouldn't have been able to go at all, thinking he wouldn't see the guy again – and now that he does, now that Deadman's there, looking so nervous and so hopeful –

Shit.

Shaking his head, Sam walks over to him. "Got no choice," he says gruffly. "Too many damn ties holding me back."

Deadman looks briefly alarmed by that, letting out a stricken, "Sam, I never meant to –" and then Lou lets out a sleepy noise of inquisition, lifting her head from Sam's chest. Deadman's eyes widen in shock and surprise, and he looks down as Sam opens his suit front a little.

"Oh my word, _Lou_ ," Deadman whispers, taking a couple of shaky steps forward. "Oh, she's alive, she's – that is her, is it – of course it is. Our little one is alive!"

"Yeah," Sam agrees.

Lou looks between them, blinking sleepily and making content little baby noises at the sight of Deadman, who is carefully tugging at Sam's suit front, to see her better.

"She's – against skin," Deadman says, sounding shaken. "You're holding her to your skin."

"Yeah," Sam says and glances away, awkward. There are probably cameras everywhere, but, fuck, knowing what he now does about Die-Hardman… he's inclined to be a bit trusting, for once. "Lou'll probably need to have someone look her over," he says, awkward. "Check her health 'n stuff, I don't know. I'm not a doctor."

"I'll do it, of _course_ I'll do it," Deadman says, still staring at him in amazement. " _Sam_."

Sam ducks his chin, hesitating and gathering courage. Lou lets out a little happy giggle, like she can feel what he's thinking. Who knows, maybe she can. Fuck it, Sam thinks, and with a shake of his head turns to Deadman, reaching for him with his free hand. "Come here."

Their first kiss tastes like tears – and feels like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, that's the story. Far from perfect, but it was fun to write. Thank you very much for reading and commenting! Till next time.
> 
> (Sam stays, settles down in Central Knot with Lou and Deadman and ends up the basically trophy husband of the Prime Minister or whatever political role Deadman ends up playing in Die-Hardman's government. Everyone assumes Sam would like to Do Things and Have Influence but he really doesn't. He takes a long, long holiday, and embraces his role at stay-at-home-dad. Deadman gets some major cool points for that which he has absolutely no idea how to cash in. It's pretty cute, overall.
> 
> After everything once Sam's phobia lets up enough for actual proper skin contact, their sex life ends up hilariously vanilla, really. Holding hands still seems like the most wild extravagant thing, though, and Sam's reaction to that never stops being !!!!.
> 
> Heartman ends up as Lou's Godfather, Fragile her Godmother and they compete with who can spoil Lou the most. Lockne is there too probably.
> 
> And they lived happily ever after.)


End file.
